


Sacrament

by Tenukii



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christian Character, Christianity, Dreams, Dreamsharing, Familiars, Halloween, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Religious Content, Samhain, Soulmates, Spells & Enchantments, Wild Hunt, Witch Curses, Witch Hunters, Witchcraft, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-08-19 09:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 97,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8199676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenukii/pseuds/Tenukii
Summary: After years of dreams and visions, Kylo Ren finally meets his soulmate Poe Dameron in person.  The problem is that Poe is a witch hunter. . . and Kylo is a witch.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY HALLOWEEN MONTH :D Like all my fics, this is historically inaccurate. Also, it does not refer to Wicca, Paganism, or any actual witchcraft – basically it’s just meant to be harmless fantasy, where “witchcraft” is pretty much the same thing as the Force ^^; What little I know about witch hunting comes from Hollywood, Good Omens, and Monty Python and the Holy Grail (“I got better!”), so I’m making most of this up and probably getting a lot of it wrong. All lyrics quoted are from “Sacrament” by H.I.M.

_I hear you breathe so far from me_  
_I feel your touch so close and real_  
_And I know my church is not of silver and gold_  
_Its glory lies beyond judgment of souls  
_ _The commandments are of consolation and warmth_

\--

Kylo Ren had been dreaming about the witch hunter for as long as he could remember.  When Kylo was a child, he dreamed of another boy unlike any of the children in the small settlement where he lived: a boy who never teased him or laughed at him or pushed him down.  The boy in Kylo’s dreams was always smiling, but his smile was sweet and not mocking like the smiles of the other children, and he held Kylo’s hand and said they would be friends forever.  The other boy was so real to Kylo, Kylo didn’t believe his parents when they told him that his friend was only imaginary, just a dream.  Even though Kylo quickly learned not to talk about the dream boy, he never stopped hoping that they’d meet someday in the real world.

As Kylo grew older, the dreams subtly changed.  During his teenage years, Kylo still held his dream boy’s hand, but the boy’s touch made his heart race and his skin tingle.  Kylo’s friend had aged along with him, and Kylo began to notice just how exotically beautiful he was.  His eyes were large and dark with long lashes, and even during the daytime, Kylo couldn’t stop picturing the way his friend gazed at him, beguilingly, with his eyelids half-closed.  The boy’s hair was not quite as black as Kylo’s own, but it grew in tousled tresses that fell around his face and tumbled down the back of his neck.  Kylo dreamed that he touched it, trailing his long fingers through it so that they caught in the curls; then the other boy put his own small hands in Kylo’s hair too and pulled his head close and kissed him.  The boy’s lips tasted both salty and sweet, and they were the color of the peaches sold in the village market in the summer.  He was darker than Kylo, who disliked the sun and covered himself as much as possible, and his smooth skin was a source of fascination to Kylo.  After their first kiss, Kylo began to taste that skin more and more often, until he dreamt almost every night of covering his companion with caresses.

By then, Kylo had learned to scry, and he was unsurprised when the face of his dream boy one day appeared as Kylo gazed into a bowl of still water.  He knew then that the boy was real, that he lived not only in dreams but somewhere in the actual world, and that he was Kylo’s soulmate.  In the years that followed, Kylo used his strengthening abilities to watch the boy become a man. . . and in his dreams, Kylo became the man’s lover.

Kylo couldn’t know whether his beloved dreamed the same dreams.  Even if he did, the other man would be unlikely to remember what Kylo whispered to him night after night: “You belong to me, my love, and I belong to you.  We were made for each other, and even if we never meet, I will always love you. . . always.”

As a child, Kylo had sometimes wept upon awaking, because he wanted so badly to be with the boy he could see only in his sleep.  Even as a man, he still felt like weeping sometimes from his longing and frustration, but now he knew it was better that he and his lover never meet in the waking world, for Kylo’s dream companion had grown up to become a witch hunter, and Kylo Ren was a witch.

And yet, Kylo’s heart soared the day he went to the market in his village and saw his beloved there, leading a saddled horse through the small settlement and looking about with curiosity in his half-lidded eyes and a cheerful smile on the lips Kylo had anointed in his dreams.

 _I knew he would come,_ Kylo thought as he drew the hood of his black cloak farther up over his face and backed into the shelter of a nearby doorway.  _Really, I knew it all along. . . ._   From the darkness, he watched the stranger he knew so well come closer, until he stopped at a fruit cart only yards from where Kylo hid.

“Could you tell me where I might find Mistress Leia Organa, please?” the witch hunter asked of the girl selling apples from the cart.  In his hiding place, Kylo started, and his eyes widened as they stared at the stranger.

The girl countered, “What do you want with her?”  New faces were a rarity in the settlement, and the townsfolk had been on edge that autumn already, as Kylo well knew.  Still, the witch hunter didn’t appear offended at the apple seller’s attitude.  He smiled again—a charming smile that would surely soften any girl’s heart.

“I have a letter from her, asking me to come.”  He slipped a hand into the long, suede vest he wore and produced a folded piece of paper.  The handwriting on its face was indeed Leia Organa’s, and the name she had written there was “Poe Dameron.”  Still, the apple seller did not succumb completely to the handsome stranger’s charisma; she hesitated before finally answering his question.

“Mistress Organa lives in the house on the hill, at the end of town,” the girl replied.  She lifted a hand to point to her left.

“Thank you.”  The man—Poe Dameron—inclined his head toward her, still smiling.  Normally, Kylo wouldn’t trust anyone who smiled so much, but Dameron’s smile was too open and honest to be doubted.  Besides, it was a smile Kylo had seen a thousand times before, in his dreams.  He fixed his eyes on Dameron’s peach-colored lips, remembering how they tasted.  Both his chest and his groin clenched with longing at the memory, and he jerked his eyes back up to Dameron’s own.

 _I have to get rid of him,_ Kylo thought.  Despite the years of longing for this man who was now scant feet from his grasp, Kylo was certain he could incite nothing but pain and hatred in Poe Dameron.  _He is a witch hunter, and I am a witch—and if Leia Organa drew him here, he can only have come to hunt **me.** I must drive him away before either he destroys me. . . or I destroy him._

As Dameron lingered to purchase an apple from the seller—probably a further effort to win her good will—Kylo slipped away from his hiding place, deeper into the old stable whose doorway had sheltered him.  A few horses were kept there, and probably Dameron’s horse would be too, while he stayed. _But he won’t stay for long,_ Kylo told himself as he stalked through to a back door.  When he passed them, the horses snorted and shied away, toward the backs of their stalls.

Kylo hurried behind the next building, which happened to be the settlement’s small church, then came up beside it to get ahead of Dameron in the street.  The witch hunter was taking his time, munching on the apple he’d bought and pausing in front of the church to study the building.  Kylo emerged unnoticed from the other side of the church and came into the street.  He thought Dameron might not look at him at all, even when Kylo drew closer, but the hunter finally glanced over when Kylo’s movement attracted his attention.

Instead of the lack of interest Kylo expected Dameron to show, the hunter stared at him.  Momentarily disconcerted by the beautiful eyes fixed on his own face, Kylo came to a stop standing in the street no more than two yards away from the man who haunted his dreams.  Kylo’s eyes swept over the brown horse Dameron led, then over Dameron himself: his short but well-proportioned frame, his dark hair softly curling over his ears and around his handsome face, his simple clothing and the small silver cross hanging from a chain about his neck.

“Who are you?” Kylo demanded— _As if I didn’t know,_ he thought, _as if I didn’t know his name and his body and the way he tastes. . . ._

“My name is Poe Dameron.”  The hunter had regulated his expression so that he no longer appeared so stunned; now he looked merely curious.

“Why have you come?  What business do you have?” persisted Kylo.  “We dislike strangers here.”  He knew from his many years of dreaming that as warm and friendly as Poe Dameron could be, the hunter was almost as stubborn as Kylo himself.  A few antagonistic questions would not be enough to drive Dameron away immediately, but they could begin the process.

Sure enough, the look on Dameron’s face hardened, and the lips Kylo so desired pressed into a thin line before he answered.

“I come by invitation,” he retorted, “but I don’t see what business _that_ is of _yours_.”

 _You have no idea,_ thought Kylo, but aloud, he only said, “You aren’t welcome here.”  He saw a flicker of hurt pass through Dameron’s eyes, and Kylo’s heart ached.  Then the hurt dissolved, and Dameron took a careful and deliberate bite of his apple.

“You’re in my way,” he mumbled around it.  Kylo scowled at him and walked on, past Dameron and his horse.  He stepped closer to Dameron than was necessary, and was able with his heightened senses to perceive the heat rising from the other man’s body, the scent of his hair and skin.

 _So close to him,_ Kylo’s heart spoke to his brain, _I’m so close to him.  I could take him in my arms and kiss him and beg him to remember the dreams we’ve shared. . . beg him to stay with me and be mine in waking as he is in sleep._

But his brain spoke back: _Yes, and what then?  What happens when he learns what I am?  He tries to drag me to the stake, that’s what happens, and either I submit and lose my life, or I fight him and he loses his._

So Kylo walked past Poe Dameron and left him in the street, feeling as if he left part of his heart behind as well.

\--

Poe turned his head to watch the strange man in black pass by.

“Bastard,” Poe muttered, then immediately felt guilty about it.  He offered up a brief, silent prayer of apology for passing judgment on the man before going on his way.  Yet Poe’s mind remained fixed on him: his long black hair and piercing eyes, his full lips, his deep voice that made something inside Poe quiver.

 _Why did he seem so familiar to me?_ Poe wondered as he trudged up the street toward the house on the hill where Leia Organa lived.  _I can’t have ever met him before, but I feel like I must know him, somehow. . . ._   And it wasn’t only that the man was familiar to Poe; stranger and more disturbing, Poe wanted him.  Of course, Poe knew that desire for another man was sinful, but that didn’t especially concern him.  (Everyone sinned, after all, and Poe fully believed his sins would be forgiven.)

What did concern Poe was _why_ he had felt such lust and longing when he gazed up into the dark brown eyes that glared at him with disdain.  The man wasn’t handsome; his features were irregular and too large, his body lanky and his skin too pale.  Poe couldn’t understand what so attracted him.  True, the man’s hair was lovely, but that was all.

 _No, no, it’s not all_.  The traitorous thought plagued Poe while he led his horse to the foot of the hill and began his ascent.  _He **was** handsome, in his way—in a way that no one else could be.  He was handsome and familiar, and he made me feel—_

Poe silenced himself there.  It didn’t matter what the man had made him feel or what desires he had awakened.  He was a man, and what’s more, he had looked at Poe with such disgust, such near hatred, Poe knew he had no chance to coax so much as a smile from those expressive lips.  By the time he reached the top of the hill and tied his horse in front of the house there, Poe had put the man out of his mind.

Leia Organa must be wealthy, he decided with a look up at her two-story house.  _And the girl selling apples called her Mistress,_ Poe remembered.  _I wonder what she could want with me—I wonder whom she’s accusing of being a witch._   A smirk flickered over Poe’s mouth.  At the same time, thoughts of the fruit seller reminded him of the apple core he still held in one hand.  Poe offered it to his horse, held on the flat of his palm so the gelding wouldn’t inadvertently bite him, and the horse crunched it down with gusto.  Poe rubbed his sticky palm on the leg of his breeches, then went to the door and knocked.

A manservant let Poe in and, when Poe displayed the letter Mistress Organa had sent him, showed him to a small parlor.  _A parlor!_ Poe marveled as he sat on a sofa and worried that he was getting it dirty.  Despite being impressed, Poe began to feel some sympathy for whatever poor soul the mistress had targeted for his hunting.  A woman of wealth and clout had the ability to make life miserable for anyone accused of being a witch.

And yet, when Mistress Organa entered the room, Poe was left puzzled, for she didn’t seem at all like the haughty, domineering woman he expected.  Her large brown eyes looked on Poe with a warmth no one else in the settlement had shown him, and she smiled at him.  Poe scrambled to his feet and bowed to her.

“You are Poe Dameron?” she asked as she inclined her head in return, then sat in a chair at an angle to his sofa.

“Yes, mistress,” Poe mumbled.  He sat down again and tried to regulate the surprise his face must show.  Mistress Organa was quite short, and her delicate feet barely reached the floor in front of her chair.  She wore her grey-streaked, chestnut brown hair in braids coiled around her head, and Poe guessed that she must be around sixty years of age.

“And if you received my letter, then you know something of why I sent for you,” she went on.

“Yes.  You—you wish me to. . . hunt someone.”

“Not exactly.”  Mistress Organa smiled again, but now her smile looked worn and tired.  “Or at least, you won’t have to hunt very far to find him—I’m well aware of whom the villagers here think to be a witch.”

One of Poe’s strengths was his ability to listen closely and draw inferences from what people did—and didn’t—say.  That skill had served him well since he became a hunter, and he drew upon it now: _She said the villagers think that he—he, it’s a man—is a witch.  Not that **she** thinks so._

Mistress Organa continued, “On your way through the settlement, perhaps you noticed that our townsfolk are suspicious of strangers.”

“Yes, I noticed,” Poe replied as he recalled first the hesitation in the apple seller’s voice, then, against his will, the way the tall, pale man had accosted him.

“They do have their reasons,” said Mistress Organa, “although on the whole we are good people here.  In the past year, things have been happening in this area—strange things that defy rational explanation.  Crops have failed, animals have fallen ill. . . one mother’s baby was stillborn just a month ago.  I’m sure you can guess to what reason the villagers ascribe these happenings.”

Poe muttered, “Yes, I certainly can.”  It was something he had seen often enough: a community had a bad season or more than its share of unhappy events, and in its desperate search for a remedy, it turned on one of its own.  Usually the victim was female—often either a pretty young girl envied by the matrons of the community, or an older woman whose only crime was possessing knowledge of healing and the natural world.  However, Poe had encountered a handful of male accused witches as well.

“The villagers have blamed a certain person for what has happened,” Mistress Organa was saying, “and not, I suppose, without justification.  Although he grew up here, he left the settlement for a period of some years, and he only returned a year ago, on All Hallows’ Eve, no less.”

“And that’s when the strange occurrences began, hmm?” Poe muttered.

“Exactly.”  Mistress Organa sighed, “I can’t explain it myself, but—I know he is innocent of what they accuse.  He _must_ be.”  Although she suppressed it well, Poe caught just a hint of emotion in her voice, and he studied her face.  The expressive eyes fixed on him looked bright, and her lips pressed together tightly.

“Who is he?” Poe asked, as gently as he could.  He wasn’t really surprised by her answer.

“He is my son,” said Mistress Organa.  “His name is Benjamin—although he refuses to answer to his Christian name and has chosen another.”  Her grimace told of a thousand other irritating things her son had done throughout his life, and in spite of the dark situation, Poe smiled a little.  She went on, “As you can imagine, that hasn’t helped ease anyone’s suspicions of him.  They call it his witch name and say that Satan himself bestowed it upon him.  That’s nonsense, of course, but then so is my son rejecting the name his father and I gave him.”

“If you’ll forgive my rudeness in asking, why did you send for me?” Poe questioned her.  “If he is your son, why do you want him. . . hunted?”

Mistress Organa surprised him with a warm smile and responded, “Because I know your reputation, Master Dameron.  Every so-called witch you’ve investigated has been found innocent.”

Poe felt heat rise to his face.  She was right, but he hadn’t expected her to know such information.

She continued, “I want you to investigate Ben.  Make your tests, and clear his name.  Otherwise, if the villagers’ persecution of him persists. . . I fear something terrible may happen.”

“You’re afraid they’ll come for him?” Poe asked.  She returned his questioning gaze with a steady look and did not answer.  Poe took a deep breath and let it out slowly, thinking hard before he spoke again.

“I can do what you ask, Mistress Organa.”  He hated to admit the next statement, but he felt she deserved to know the truth.  “But you must know—I don’t believe in witches.  Or witchcraft, or magic, or any of it save Satan’s influence on the hearts of suffering human beings looking for a scapegoat when things go badly.  I will perform all the tests on your son, I will do so honestly, and I’m sure he will pass.  But I can’t pretend to you that I think witches really exist.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Mistress Organa told him, “as long as he can pass your tests.  But do tell me, Master Dameron. . . if you don’t believe in witchcraft, _why_ did you become a witch hunter?”

Poe gave her a slightly abashed smile and said, “ _Because_ I don’t believe in witchcraft.  Even as a child, I saw too many innocent people condemned to die—or at best, shunned and driven from society—in the name of something that doesn’t exist.  Corrupt, or perhaps only misguided, witch hunters who faked their tests or misunderstood the results they saw. . . I trained to become a hunter so I could set right at least a little of the damage they caused.”

Poe dropped his gaze from hers and looked down at his brown hands folded in his lap.  “A person’s life can be too easily ruined by a careless word or a jealous lie, like those spread about your son.  I believe God has charged me to advocate for those innocents, and I will be glad to do so for your son.”

Mistress Organa was quiet for a long time, so long that Poe finally raised his head to give her a questioning look.  He found her watching him with an expression that was both thoughtful and almost sad, as if she pitied him.

 _Does **she** really believe?_ Poe wondered.  _She looks like she thinks **I’m** the misguided one. . . ._

“I thank you for coming to my aid,” she finally said.  “I’m afraid that you’ll find Ben far from grateful, but know that I have gratitude enough for the both of us.  I must warn you, my son is a difficult man, and I doubt he will make your task easy.  I will pay you double whatever your usual fee is, to try to make up for it.”

“Oh, you—you don’t have to—”  Poe broke off his stammer to get a hold of himself.  “I mean, I don’t ask for payment until the tests are complete.  We can discuss it then.”

“All right, as you wish,” she replied, sounding as if she were holding back a laugh.  “But you will at least have free room and board until then.  I have already made arrangements for you at the inn.  You need only give your name.”

“I. . . thank you, very much,” Poe murmured.  The “room” part of the equation was nice, but the words “free board” were what truly resonated with him.  The apple he’d bought to appease the girl at the fruit stand was the first thing Poe had eaten all day, and the most he’d eaten at one time all week.

Shaking himself out of his daydreams of food, Poe asked Mistress Organa, “Where may I find your son, and how will I know him?  It’s late now, and tomorrow is the Sabbath, so I will not begin right away.  However, I want to prepare myself.”

“Of course.  He lives away from the settlement, about a mile to the west.  You’ll know the place when you see it—a small cottage on the edge of the woods,” Mistress Organa told Poe.  “Ben lives alone, and he rarely comes into town, but should you see him, you’ll know him—he’s very striking.”

“Striking?” Poe murmured.  A heavy feeling of foreboding sank into his chest.

“Yes, he’s tall—you wouldn’t guess it to look at me, would you?—with long black hair.  He’s pale and wears only black, as if he’s perpetually in mourning.  It’s been an affectation of his since he was a child, and nothing I say can dissuade him of it,” Mistress Organa lamented, but Poe hardly heard.

“Does he have a large nose?” he blurted out.  It probably wasn’t the most polite thing to say to the accused witch’s mother, but Poe was too distraught to care.

“Er, well. . . yes, he rather does.”  She blinked at him then asked, “Have you already seen him?”

“Yes,” Poe almost groaned.  “I think I have.”

“I take it you weren’t impressed,” Mistress Organa observed.

 _Oh, but I was,_ Poe thought in misery.  _Unfortunately._

Aloud, he tried to explain, “It’s not that, only. . . only I don’t think he was impressed with _me_.  He told me I was not welcome here.”

She sighed, “That was Ben, all right.  I’m sorry, Master Dameron, but as I told you, he’s difficult. . . and will probably be more so once he learns what you are and that I summoned you here.  You may be asking me for _three_ times your fees before this is all over.”

“No, please don’t concern yourself with his behavior,” Poe urged, thinking to himself that all the money in the world wouldn’t make his impending task any easier.  “No matter how disagreeable a man is, I cannot let him be persecuted when he is innocent.  I couldn’t face myself, or go to the Lord in prayer, otherwise.”

Again, Mistress Organa gave him the look of pity.

“Poe,” she began, then asked, “May I call you Poe?”  When he nodded, she went on, “I thank you for that from the bottom of my heart, and if there is any way that I can aid you, you have only to ask.  Otherwise, though, I think it’s better that I make myself scarce.  Ben bears great animosity toward myself and his father, and I fear we would only impede your progress.”

“I understand,” said Poe.  _What’s wrong with the man?_ he wondered to himself. _She’s so kind, and clearly, she loves him.  Why would he turn his back on perhaps the only person who does?_   Mistress Organa had risen to her feet, and Poe did so as well, getting the impression that he was being dismissed.

Still, as he went to the door, she asked, “Would you come to meeting with me tomorrow?  My husband refuses to attend, as does Ben, but I would appreciate your company.  Besides, you need to meet the rest of the villagers under better circumstances than what you encountered today.  Once they learn why you’re here, most of them will warm up to you.”

“Thank you, I would be glad to attend,” Poe assured her.  His thoughts were a tumult, nevertheless, and foremost was worry: how was he going to get a sullen, disagreeable man who already hated him to submit to his tests?

Poe was already out the door when he realized Mistress Organa hadn’t told him one key piece of information.  He turned back to where she was standing in the doorway, looking down into the village.

“Mistress Organa?” Poe asked, and she turned her warm eyes back to him.

“Yes, Poe?”

“You said your son had taken another name,” said Poe.  “What is it?”

Mistress Organa studied him a few seconds before she answered, “He calls himself Kylo Ren.”

\--

To be continued


	2. Chapter 2

That night, Kylo went to bed early, hoping to see Poe Dameron in his dreams.  He had spent the evening slicing the apples he’d bought that day and hanging them up to dry amidst the other fruit and herbs suspended from the low ceiling of his cottage.  An orange cat sat beside the fireplace and watched, then set up a loud meowing until Kylo cast a glare in its direction and went to prepare its dinner.

Shortly after, Kylo left the cat next to the banked fire and crawled into his bed in the small second room off the back of the cottage.  He fell asleep easily enough; years of training himself in the arts of astral projection and lucid dreaming had left him in near-total control of his sleep cycles.

Nevertheless, Kylo did not dream of Poe.  His dreams were confused and filled with the sense that he was searching for something he couldn’t find.  Kylo woke several times, until he finally gave up on trying to sleep.  Shortly past midnight, he got out of bed and went back into the larger room, where he took down from a shelf on the wall the large, hammered metal bowl he used for scrying.  When Kylo set the bowl on the flagstones of the fireplace with a clank, the cat started awake and gave him a sullen look.

“You can go sleep outside if I’m disturbing you,” Kylo muttered to it; then he ignored the animal as he went about filling the bowl with water drawn from his well earlier that day.  The cat got up and stalked over to the bowl, where it sat and stared at Kylo until he finally acknowledged it again.

“ _What?_ ” he grumbled.  He sat down on the opposite side of the bowl and looked at the animal over it.

The cat mewed.

“It’s no concern of yours,” Kylo retorted, “but. . . I saw him today.  He is here.”  He dropped his eyes from the green, feline pair that regarded him in the dying light from the fire’s embers.  The water had stilled in the bowl and was ready for Kylo to use—once his emotions were calmer.

He murmured to the cat, “He has come to hunt me, at Mother’s request.  I should have known. . . I should have known it would come to this.”  The cat made another meow that somehow managed to sound skeptical.  Kylo flicked his eyes up to it and said, “I _know_ she did—he had a letter from her.  I have to drive him away, before he tries to bring me to the stake. . . before I’m forced to fight him.  But—oh God, _God_ , he’s exquisite.”  Kylo’s voice fell to a groan, and he dropped his head in his hands, his black hair falling around his fingers.

“His eyes—when he looked at me,” Kylo mumbled into his hands, “they were more beautiful than even in my dreams, like. . . like the night sky full of stars.  I was close enough to touch him, and I—I told him to leave, I told him he wasn’t welcome here.  Not welcome, when all I really wanted to do was pull him into my arms and never let him go!”

The cat hissed, got up, and stalked away into the bedroom.

Kylo sat hunched over the bowl for another moment while he calmed himself; then he dropped his hands from his face and gazed into the flat, glassy surface of the water.  By clearing his thoughts and regulating his breathing, Kylo was able to enter the relaxed state necessary for him to scry.

In the bowl of water, he saw the face denied to him in that night’s dreams.  The witch hunter was sleeping, Kylo assumed in the settlement’s tiny inn, with his handsome face lit by a flickering candle.  _He probably fell asleep without blowing it out,_ Kylo thought with a smile at such careless behavior, familiar to him from years of dreams shared with Poe.

For the few moments that he gazed at the sleeping man, Kylo felt nothing but a sort of peaceful joy.  He could forget all the obstacles standing between Poe and himself; instead, Kylo dwelt on the thought that his beloved rested a scant mile away, and the thought that Kylo might see him again soon.

“I love you,” Kylo whispered, as if Poe could somehow hear him.  The candlelight illuminating Poe’s peaceful face had begun to gutter, and Kylo knew that in a moment, the candle would go out and he would be able to see nothing more.  He felt despair looming in the back of his mind, waiting to engulf him again, but he pushed it away for a few seconds longer.  Kylo drew his eyes over Poe one final time, then leaned down and touched his mouth to the water’s surface.  His kiss spread ripples through the bowl, and when he sat up, water dripping from his lips, the image was gone.

Kylo wiped his mouth on the arm of the long linen shirt he wore and emptied the bowl’s contents onto the remains of the fire.  Leaving the bowl on a table that stood in the center of the room, Kylo went back to his bed.  The cat was there asleep, curled up at the foot of the bed.  Kylo sighed and got in more carefully than usual, so as not to wake it.

He didn’t put himself back to sleep right away; if sleep could bring no dreams of his beloved, Kylo didn’t want it.  Instead, he lay quietly on his back with his eyes closed and tried to hold the image of Poe’s quiet rest in his mind.

 _I have to see him again,_ Kylo thought.   _Tomorrow. . . tomorrow is the Sabbath, and I’m sure he’ll go to meeting.  My mother will have asked him, and he won’t say no, not to the one who’s hired him._   Kylo gave a low chuckle into the darkness at the thought of himself going into the church, and the reactions his presence would garner.

Nevertheless, the next morning he waited until meeting had begun before he slipped into the church building and sat on an empty bench at the very back.  The preacher was praying aloud for the ill in the settlement, his eyes closed, so Kylo took his seat without being noticed.  However, as soon as the prayer ended and the preacher opened his eyes, he caught sight of Kylo.  The old man’s eyes widened, and although he regained his composure quickly enough, for a moment, he looked truly stunned.

Few in the small congregation saw the preacher’s distress, but Kylo’s mother did.  Kylo had already picked her out—her short stature and braided hair made her easily recognizable—and her shoulders stiffened.  Leia Organa glanced back over her shoulder at her son with a stern frown that clearly said, “Don’t you dare cause trouble”. . . and then she leaned over to murmur something to the young man at her side.

Kylo had recognized Poe Dameron right away, too, by the locks of curly, dark brown hair that trailed the nape of his tan neck.  As soon as Leia spoke to him, Dameron looked behind him.  His eyes met Kylo’s, and for an instant, Poe’s mouth twitched as if he were thinking of smiling at the other man.  Kylo’s heart felt as if it wanted to leap right out of his chest, and he forced a scowl to his face.  Poe’s lips pressed together in a thin line rather than smiling, and he faced forward once more.

If he had known Kylo would be attending that meeting, the preacher probably would have prepared a variation of his “not suffering a witch to live” sermon, but the one he had ready—something about the sinfulness of pleasing the flesh—seemed apt enough as well.  Kylo had heard that one enough too, as a child when he’d attend meeting with his mother, and he paid it little attention now.  Instead, he focused on Poe Dameron, watching the other man’s every movement.  Poe didn’t look back at Kylo again, but the hunter still seemed uncomfortable.

 _Does the topic of the sermon embarrass him?_ Kylo wondered.  _Or does he feel guilt over what he’s come here to do—to hunt me?  Is he merely bored. . . or does he long to turn around and look into my eyes, the way I long to gaze into his?_   As unlikely as that was, this last possibility captivated Kylo and occupied him for the rest of the meeting. _I would give your flesh all the pleasure you could ever want, Poe Dameron,_ he thought, _and teach you why there’s no sin in it.  I would make you my bride before God in His true church, not in this meager building before these foolish people—if only you had come here for any other reason, if only you could see me as anything but what you’ve come to kill._

When the preacher began his closing prayer and all other eyes in the church had closed, Kylo got up and made his silent exit.  No one had seen him there except for the preacher, Leia, and Poe. . . and Poe was the only one who mattered to him.

 _She’ll send him after me soon enough,_ Kylo thought as he stood looking back at the little church building.  _Send him to make his tests on her own son—and even when I pass his silly tests, he’ll denounce me anyway, and they’ll all have the proof of what they’ve said about me from the first._

Kylo knew he should hurry away if he didn’t want Poe Dameron to catch him a lot sooner than planned, but he became lost in his thoughts of the man who’d come to have him killed: _Does he want to see me burn?  Does he want it badly enough to stay, no matter how I try to drive him away from here?  And if he does. . . what am I going to do?  Am I going to fight him, knowing I’ll win, knowing it will probably kill him?_

_Or am I going to let him drag me to the stake, rather than hurt him?  Am I going to give my life to spare his?_

Just as Kylo turned away and started back up the street, he heard his mother’s voice hailing him.  He cringed and kept walking, until he realized she wasn’t going to stop her (increasingly loud) calls until he acknowledged her.  Finally, Kylo paused and looked back.

“What do you want, Mother?” Kylo hissed as she approached him, her face set in a familiar glower.  Poe Dameron followed behind her, and the heads of several other departing churchgoers had turned at the sound of the commotion.  When the others saw Kylo, some hurried away, but most clustered to whisper in twos or threes, still watching him.

“I wanted to introduce you to my guest,” Leia replied when she and Dameron had drawn closer, “although he tells me you’ve already met.”

“We have,” Kylo said as scornfully as he could manage.  He kept his eyes fixed on his mother, not trusting himself to look directly at Dameron.  “I know who he is, and I know why he’s come here.”

“Is that why you were so rude to me yesterday?” Dameron interrupted the conversation.  Kylo’s gaze jerked over to the other man before he could stop it.  Poe glared as he continued, “Because you think you know who I am?”

“Your name is Poe Dameron,” Kylo breathed.  “You are a witch hunter, and _she_ summoned you here.”  Poe’s eyes widened slightly at hearing that Kylo _did_ know him, and Kylo allowed himself a small, cocky smile even though he was thinking, _And I know you far better than that.  I know your scent and your taste, the way you kiss and how to do things that would make your body tremble and your lips moan my name. . . ._

“I summoned him for your own sake, Ben,” interjected Leia, “as perhaps you know.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” Kylo growled at her, finally able to take his eyes away from Dameron.

“Really?  Then why were you at meeting this morning, if not to see _him_?” his mother countered.  Kylo felt his cheeks burn in a blush.  Somehow, she had known. . . .  From the corner of his eye, Kylo could see Dameron still staring at him, and it was possible that the hunter’s darker face was flushed as well. _As if he wants me to be looking for him. . . to be looking **at** him,_ Kylo thought.  _Could it be that he remembers something of our dreams together?  Can he feel it too?_

Kylo crushed the hope rising within him and retorted, without answering her question, “I have no use for this man, or for your desire to see him bring me to the stake.”

“What?  Ben, you really think. . . .”  When Leia’s voice trailed into silence, Kylo saw true pain in her brown eyes, so like his own.  Underneath all the layers of uncaring he had built over the years, Kylo felt guilty for it—but that guilt was like his love for the witch hunter: something to be hidden.

Leia regulated her voice and said more sternly, “I sent for Poe to prove you innocent, not to condemn you.”

“Innocent?” Kylo scoffed, for his own mother knew better than anyone else that he truly was a witch.  Leia herself had some small powers, and he wondered if Poe Dameron knew _that_.  He turned back to Dameron and told him, “You’d do better not to waste your time here, or on me.  Go back to wherever you came from, before you get hurt.”

Resentment and anger filled Poe’s beautiful dark eyes, but he only said in a low voice, “You’re a stubborn ass who doesn’t deserve the love of so good a mother—but neither do you deserve to burn, just to satisfy this town’s naïve superstition.  I’m not going anywhere until I’ve made my tests on you.  I will need no more than a few days to demonstrate your innocence to the town fathers, and then you will be free of me.”

Dameron’s words startled Kylo.  Perhaps Leia really _did_ send for the witch hunter with good intentions; maybe she knew that Kylo could easily pass any of the ridiculous tests.  Maybe Poe knew that too.

 _No, I cannot trust him,_ Kylo told himself with a narrowing of his eyes.  _He speaks of my innocence now, before her, but when we’re alone, he may yet try to entrap me._

Aloud, Kylo sneered, “You truly refuse to leave me in peace until I submit to your ridiculous games?  So be it.  When shall we start—today?”  He thought, _If he won’t leave otherwise, better to begin as soon as possible and get it over with.  I’ll still drive him away, one way or another._

“Not on the Sabbath,” Poe countered immediately.  “Tomorrow.  Your mother has told me where you live—I’ll come to you there, and we can begin.”

“Fine.”  Kylo gave his mother a sardonic nod of farewell, but before he could turn away from them, she intervened once more.

“Give him your hand,” Leia instructed her son, “and swear on your honor that you will submit to the tests graciously.”

“My hand. . . .”  Kylo looked down at it, then at Poe’s, thinking, _I’ll have to touch him, to feel his warmth. . . ._  Poe extended his hand and waited, and suddenly Kylo wanted nothing more than to clasp it in his own.  He did just that, closing his long fingers over Poe’s as he had a thousand times in his dreams.

“I swear I’ll submit,” murmured Kylo.  For a moment, he forgot everything else and let himself look into Poe’s eyes as if they were together in his dreams, not in a place where they were enemies.  Dameron’s eyes moved over his face; then Poe nodded.  Kylo drew his hand back to escape all the temptations Poe’s touch brought.  He turned away, this time without further interference from his mother, and walked swiftly toward the edge of the settlement and the path that would take him home.

As soon as his back was turned and his face was hidden from the others’ view, Kylo brought his hand to his mouth and pressed its palm to his lips.

 _I’ll see him again tomorrow,_ Kylo thought.  _He’ll come to me in my home to look at me with his beautiful eyes, to touch me again with those perfect hands. . . and then I’ll have to drive him away._   Kylo’s hand trembled against his mouth, and he clenched his fingers into a fist before dropping it to his side.

\--

For some reason Poe couldn’t understand, his hand shook after Kylo Ren let it go and turned away.  Poe wanted him—he understood _that_ much—but he still couldn’t fathom why.  The man had looked at him with such loathing, as if he really did think that his own mother had sent for Poe with the sole purpose of condemning Kylo to his death.  “I have no use for this man,” Ren had said of him, and the words had seared Poe to his core.

 _But for the instant that we touched, his face changed,_ Poe remembered. _His eyes—watching me as if he really did know me, and his hand warm in mine. . . ._   In his head, Poe heard again the deep voice murmuring, “I swear I’ll submit,” and he shivered.

Leia Organa was watching him.  Poe held his hand down against his thigh to still its trembling and hoped the older woman wouldn’t realize how he was lusting for her son.  But she said nothing about the encounter, save to apologize for Kylo’s rudeness; then she asked Poe if he would come have lunch at her home.  Poe had eaten more than was probably good for him at breakfast, not to mention at dinner the night before, but he was surprised to find that he was already hungry again.

 _Whatever else comes of this, at least I’ll leave this place well-fed,_ Poe observed after he had accepted Mistress Organa’s offer and was following her up the street to her house.  He chided himself immediately after: _But what else **could** come of it, besides a few meals and some money?  Even if Ben—Kylo didn’t resent me so, he is a man.  He could never be mine.  Perhaps **I** am the one being tested here—perhaps God sent him to test me. . . to tempt me. . . ._

Poe spent the rest of the short walk in silent prayer, asking first for forgiveness and second for the strength to endure the next day, when he would be alone with Kylo Ren.

After they dined, Mistress Organa asked Poe to wait while she wrote a letter for him to give to her son the next day.

“This may not do one bit of good,” she commented as she sealed the letter with wax, “but ask him to read it before you begin your tests.  You’ve seen how bitter he acts towards me, but I suspect that at least some of it _is_ an act and he still holds some affection for me.”  Mistress Organa got up from her desk and handed the letter to Poe.  “Perhaps if he reads these assurances of yours and my goodwill, he’ll cooperate with you more easily.”

Poe doubted it _would_ do any good, but he smiled nonetheless as he accepted the letter.

“Thank you, but please don’t worry.  I’ve worked with others who were unwilling to be tested before, so I’m used to being mistrusted and despised.”  He spoke lightly, to show he meant the remark in humor, but Mistress Organa shook her head.

“He doesn’t despise you, Poe.  As with his behavior towards me, it’s an act.  Even after being apart from Ben for so long, I still know him very well,” she told Poe.  “The way he looked at you when he took your hand—you intrigue him as much as he intrigues you.”

For the second time that afternoon, Poe felt his face grow warm.  _Am I that transparent?_ he wondered.  _And. . . could she be right?_

Mistress Organa continued, “All that aside, the very fact that he came to meeting today, just to catch another glimpse of you—”

Poe’s embarrassment overwhelmed him, and he interrupted in a stammer, “I-I’m sure _I_ wasn’t the reason he came.”  To his surprise, Mistress Organa smiled—a full, open smile.

“I told you, he _never_ comes to meeting—not since he was a child, before I stopped forcing him to attend.  The only thing different about this Sabbath from any other is that _you_ are here.”  Poe had no response for her, and he busied himself with tucking the letter into his vest.

“I’ll give this to Ben tomorrow,” he mumbled.  “I intend to go early in the day to begin my tests.  Shall I come here after to report on how it went?”

“There’s no need, until your tests are complete.  Then you can tell me everything at once,” Mistress Organa replied.  She walked with Poe to the door but stopped him with a hand on his arm as he was leaving.  “Thank you, Poe, for your patience—and for your stubbornness, I suppose.  If you yielded more easily, I don’t think you’d be any match for Ben, but as it is. . . perhaps you can help him.”

“I hope so, mistress,” Poe said, but as he returned to his room at the inn, he wondered at her words.

\--

To be continued


	3. Chapter 3

_You know our sacred dream won't fail_  
_The sanctuary tender and so frail_  
_The sacrament of love_  
_The sacrament of warmth is true  
_ _The sacrament is you_

\--

Kylo hardly slept the night of the Sabbath, even when he tried to put himself to sleep; his mind was too preoccupied with thoughts of Poe Dameron.  What little sleep Kylo got, it brought no dreams that he could recall, of Poe or anything else.

Eventually, near dawn, Kylo gave up on getting any more rest.  He rose and dressed, then spent the next hour pacing his cottage, wondering what the day—and Dameron—would bring.  The cat grumbled and hissed at being awakened so early, and it sulked by the fireplace even after Kylo built up the fire.  It was mid-October, and the weather had already turned cold with the first frost occurring some weeks before.  Of course, Kylo took much of the blame for the unseasonably early winter.

_As if I could control the weather,_ he brooded.  _If I could accomplish but half of what they accuse me of doing, I wouldn’t be living out my days here in near poverty._

Kylo had just begun to heat a kettle of water to make tea—more to occupy his time than because he really wanted it—when a firm knock sounded on the cottage’s rickety wooden door.  Kylo started and looked at the door; despite his early rising, he hadn’t expected Dameron to arrive that soon.  After a pause, the knock came again, and the cat gave a loud, pointed meow.

“All right, all right,” Kylo muttered, and he went to the door.  His hand shook on the latch, but he composed his face before lifting it and opening the door.  Poe Dameron stood on the other side, wrapped in a worn cloak and looking rather cold.  Without speaking, Kylo stood aside to let the smaller man come in and latched the door behind him.  By the time he turned to face Dameron, he had thought of something to say.

“Don’t your masters clothe you better than that?”

“We’re responsible for our own clothing,” Dameron muttered.  He cast his dark eyes aside as if ashamed, and Kylo immediately regretted what he’d said.

_If I shame him, he’ll want to leave all the sooner,_ Kylo told himself, but even so, his heart protested his cruelty.  _I can’t stand to know he’s suffering.  If only I could warm him in my arms. . . ._

“Go sit by the fire,” he ordered Dameron gruffly with a gesture toward the wobbly chair in front of the fireplace.  “And when my mother pays your fee, you might consider using it to purchase a new cloak.”  Kylo went to his table to retrieve his only other chair, and when he carried it to the fireplace, Dameron was already seated and holding out his small, brown hands to the fire.  The cat lying on the flagstones had its head tilted up, watching him.

“You need gloves too,” Kylo observed as he placed his chair a few feet away and sat down.  He had noticed the day before that Dameron’s hands felt rough, and now he could see that the skin on the hunter’s palms was parched and cracked.  Poe’s hands had never been like that in Kylo’s dreams; there, they were soft and flawless. _But I suppose in our dreams, we have perfect bodies,_ Kylo mused, _like our Heavenly bodies will be someday._   Nevertheless, he found everything about Poe’s earthly body beautiful, flaws and all.

When Dameron saw Kylo looking at his hands, he pulled them back into his lap, burrowing them under the cloak he still wore.

“Are you ready to begin?” Dameron asked in a low voice.

“We might as well—” Kylo began, until he was interrupted by the rattle of his kettle as the water started to boil over.  He’d forgotten all about it.

“Dammit!” he hissed.  As he leapt to his feet and wrapped his hand in a cloth to snatch the kettle off its hook over the fire, Dameron chuckled.  Now Kylo was the one to be embarrassed, but his pleasure at hearing Poe’s laugh kept him from getting angry.  He trudged with the heavy kettle over to the table and poured the boiling water into the teapot he had ready.

“Do you want some tea?” he asked Dameron, deciding that he could at least be polite.

“Yes,” said Poe immediately.  He sounded surprised.  “Please.”

“You aren’t afraid I’m going to poison it?” Kylo muttered.  He got a second cup out for Poe.  “Or use it to bewitch you?”

“People really think you do things like that?” Poe asked in return, sounding more surprised than ever.  “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not so far-fetched,” responded Kylo.  “At the least, I _could_ poison you if I wanted to, but so could anyone else who knew anything about poison.  And I do read the tea leaves sometimes.  However, things would only be worse for me if any harm befell you, would they not?”  He strained the tea into the cups and brought them back to the fire.  When he passed Dameron his, Poe looked up into his face.

“You read the tea leaves?”  A faint smile crossed Poe’s peach-colored, chapped lips.  As if he thought it silly, as if he’d never heard of a witch doing such a mundane thing.  Kylo scowled and turned to sit down again, without answering.

After he sipped cautiously at the hot tea, Dameron murmured, “This tastes good.  Like—like flowers.”  He glanced at Kylo with his eyelids half-lowered, in the captivating way Kylo knew so well from his dreams.  “I suppose that’s a silly thing to say.”

Kylo had to work to hide a smile.  “Hardly, considering it’s brewed with rose petals.”

“Oh!  Truly?”  Poe looked down into his cup with a smile he didn’t bother to hide at all.  “I didn’t know they were edible.  Er. . . drink. . . able?”

“Many plants are.  I’ve learned everything I can about what grows in this area,” Kylo told him, “especially in the woods.  Because most of the townsfolk are too afraid to enter them, I can have almost everything that lives or grows there for myself.”  The cat meowed loudly, and Kylo sighed.  “For myself and _him_.”

“Why is everyone afraid to enter the woods?” Dameron asked.  He was looking at Kylo again, and Kylo made himself keep his own eyes on the fire or his cup.  “They can’t be that dangerous, not if you live right on the edge of them.”

Kylo laughed, mirthlessly.  “They fear the woods because they believe a coven of witches makes its nest at the heart of the forest.  And naturally, a witch wouldn’t be afraid of other witches, now would he?”

“Right,” Dameron mumbled.  When Kylo risked another glance at him, Poe was looking around the cottage, particularly at the dried fruit, herbs, and flowers hanging from the ceiling, and at the woven rug on the otherwise bare floor.  Kylo had very little in the way of material possessions, but as he’d indicated, he was never in danger of starving or freezing.  Some of his skills, mistaken for witchcraft by the superstitious, were purely domestic, but they served him well.

“Have you eaten?” he asked Poe.  _I’m being too kind to him,_ Kylo thought, _but I can’t let him go hungry any more than I can let him freeze._

“Oh, yes, thank you.”  Poe smiled once more, and Kylo didn’t look away quickly enough.  Instead, he watched Poe’s mouth, captivated, as the hunter spoke.  “Your mother was very kind in paying all of my room and board, so they’ve fed me quite well at the inn.”  He chuckled again and added, “I’m going to be too fat to ride my horse by the time I leave this town.”

“I hardly think so,” Kylo murmured.  “Your face is too thin.  You hadn’t had enough to eat for a long time before you came here, had you?”  Poe’s beautiful smile vanished, and he bit his lower lip.

Instead of answering, he muttered, “Speaking of your mother, I’d forgotten.”  Dameron leaned over to set his empty teacup on the floor; then he unclasped his cloak and slipped out of it, leaving it draped open over the back of the chair.  From inside the vest he wore under it, Poe took a folded paper and held it out to Kylo.

“She gave me a letter for you.  She asked that you read it before I begin my tests.”

“Hmph.”  Kylo took it, flipped it over to see that it was still sealed (although he would have been surprised if a virtuous man like Poe had read something not addressed to him), then tossed it aside to the floor.  “I have no interest in anything she has to say to me.”  He was gratified by the stunned and slightly horrified look Dameron gave him.

“But—she said for you to read it first!” the hunter protested.  “I promised her I’d give it to you before I began.”

Kylo shrugged.  “And you did, so it’s no longer your concern.”  In truth, he _was_ curious about what his mother had to say to him, but he’d rather Poe not know that.   _I’ll read it after he’s gone,_ Kylo decided.  Aloud, he told Poe, “Let’s proceed with your tests and be done with them.  What must you do to—how did you put it?—prove my innocence to the town fathers?”

“There are several tests that can, supposedly, prove that one is a witch,” Poe replied, “or prove that one is _not_.  Of course, they’re all ridiculous falsehoods.”

“Of course,” Kylo echoed, intrigued in spite of himself.  Any witch could easily pass some of the tests he knew of, just as any ordinary mortal could fail others.  However, Kylo had never heard of a witch hunter who believed that.

Poe continued, “My intention is to perform some of the tests before the town fathers, and whoever else wishes to witness them, so that they will be satisfied of your innocence.  However, we can’t afford to have any surprises, so I’ve come to meet with you in private to prepare you.  I suppose you could say we’re practicing.  You’ll know what I intend to ask of you, and I’ll know how you’ll respond and what I will find.”

Kylo eyed him a moment in amazed silence.  Even as long as he’d known Poe in his dreams, he had never asked about his methods of witch-hunting.  Kylo hadn’t wanted to know, and learning them now astounded him.

Finally, Kylo murmured, “So my mother really is paying you to prove me innocent—not to condemn me.”

Poe shot him an incredulous look and retorted, “Of course she is.  I can’t believe you would think that your own mother, as kind a woman as she is, would want to see you die.”

“Never mind what you believe,” Kylo growled.  “Just get on with it—tell me what these tests are so I can be rid of you.”

Poe lowered his black lashes over his eyes and sighed.  “There will be three.  First, I will invite the town fathers here to satisfy themselves that you have no artifacts of witchcraft.”

“ _What?_ ” Kylo cried.  At the same time, the cat gave an annoyed hiss.  “You’re going to ‘invite’ them into my home?  What gives _you_ the right to do _that_?”

“Would you prefer I use some of the more barbaric methods?” Poe retorted.  “Dunking?  Or pressing, maybe?  They’ll know you’re not a witch when you’re drowned or crushed under a pile of rocks, but I’ll wager that won’t do _you_ much good.”

“Fine,” grumbled Kylo.  “Although they’ll probably mistake everything I own for some kind of spell ingredient, the fools.”

“That’s why I came here alone first,” Poe told him in a calmer tone.  “I’ll search your dwelling, and if I see anything that could be misconstrued, we can hide it elsewhere before the others come.”  When Kylo didn’t protest, Poe continued, “The second test will be for you to recite the Lord’s Prayer, since witches aren’t supposed to be able to say it without mistakes.  If you don’t know it, you’ll need to learn—”

“Of course I know it,” Kylo interrupted.  “Whatever Mother told you, I _did_ attend meeting when I was a child.  It was fairly well drilled into me.”

“You know it well enough to recite it flawlessly?” Poe challenged.  “A single mistake is enough to condemn you.”

“Our Father,” Kylo announced, “Which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name.  Thy kingdom come.  Thy will be done even in earth as it is in Heaven.  Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts, as we also forgive our debtors.  And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever.  Amen.”

Poe didn’t look as impressed as Kylo had hoped for, but he nodded.  “All right.  You would do well to memorize some other Bible passage too, to offer additional evidence.”  Such a test was as ridiculous as any other, for any witch could read the Bible aloud from cover to cover if he or she desired.  However, Kylo knew that arguing that point with Poe wouldn’t get him anywhere.

Instead, he sighed, “And what is the third test?”

Poe looked away, and perhaps his cheeks darkened a bit as he muttered, “I have to examine you for what they call witch’s marks—any irregularities that someone could claim as the mark of the devil.”

“. . . Irregularities _where?_ ” Kylo asked.

“Anywhere on your body.”  Poe was definitely blushing, and Kylo realized from the heat in his face that he probably was too.  “Any marks that are insensitive—that is, if you feel no pain when pricked with a needle—could be considered proof of your guilt, so I need to know in advance how you’ll react to touch there.”

“You’re going to strip my clothes off before the whole town and poke me with needles?” Kylo groaned.  “Your tests are _worse_ than burning, Dameron!”

“You should be thankful I’m honest!” Poe snapped.  “Some hunters use trick pins or collapsible knives so that the accused truly doesn’t feel any pain!  And of course I won’t force you to undress completely before everyone.  I have to see all of you to know what to expect should someone challenge my findings, but that isn’t likely.  For the public trial, we’ll—we’ll find some spots on your back or something, somewhere that you feel comfortable showing them, and—”

“I don’t feel _comfortable_ about any of this.”  Kylo glowered into the fire, unable to speak what was truly at the heart of his uneasiness: the thought of Poe seeing him naked, even in private, and judging his imperfections.  Of course, he had been bared before Poe a thousand times in his dreams—but that dream-body was flawless, as Kylo had already observed.  And besides, the real-life Poe had no memory of those dreams, _and_ he was viewing Kylo as an accused witch, looking for every blemish.

_And poking them,_ Kylo thought miserably. _With needles._

“I don’t feel comfortable about it either,” grumbled Poe, “but it must be done.”  He stood from his chair and moved over next to Kylo.  Kylo drew in a sharp breath when Poe cupped his chin in one hand and tilted his face upward.  The dark, reddish-brown irises of Poe’s eyes bore into Kylo’s own gaze, and Kylo’s heart felt as if it fluttered in his chest.

Then, Poe announced, “You have a lot of spots on your face.  If the rest of you is like that, this could take a while.”

Kylo made an incoherent growling noise and jerked his chin free of Poe’s hand, then stood as well and took several steps backward, away from the other man.

“Get out,” he snarled, pointing to the door for good measure.  “I will not submit to being judged by you, whatever fate awaits me.”

“No,” Poe protested, “I didn’t mean—only that—”

“Be _quiet!_ ” Kylo shouted at him.  Only by yelling could he be certain he wasn’t going to weep from humiliation.  “And leave me be!  Go tell them I’m a witch, condemn me, tell them whatever you want—just _go!_ ”

Dameron stared at him, the blush drained from his face.  In fact, Poe’s normally tan face seemed downright pale, and he bit at his lip again.  Then, silent as Kylo had commanded, he went to the door.  He stopped there and muttered, “I’m sorry, Kylo,” before he slipped out without looking back.

Kylo stormed to the door and latched it, but then all his anger abandoned him, and he sank to his knees and leaned forward to rest his forehead on the rough wood.

_All he sees are my flaws,_ he thought.  He couldn’t keep the tears of bitterness from escaping his eyes, but it didn’t really matter.  There was no one to see them, besides the cat.  _Perhaps he finds me beautiful in our dreams together, but here in reality. . . he must think I’m repulsive.  And he’ll be even more repulsed if he ever realizes what I truly am.  Maybe he really does believe me to be innocent, but he’s still a witch hunter—and a witch hunter can feel nothing but hatred for a witch._   A repressed sob shook Kylo’s broad shoulders and rattled the door on its hinges.

The cat got up from the fireplace and paced over to stand beside Kylo, where it gave a loud meow.

“Shut up,” Kylo muttered at it.  “You’re my familiar, so _you’re_ part of the problem.”  The cat mewed again, and Kylo growled, “I don’t need you to lecture me!”

The cat spat at him, ginger fur bristling, and turned to stalk away.  It stopped when it came to the letter from Kylo’s mother, still lying on the floor where Kylo had tossed it.  The cat, with some difficulty, got the edge of the letter in its mouth and carried it over to Kylo.  It dropped the letter beside him, spat again, then vacated the room.

“What the hell could she say that could _possibly_ make things better?” Kylo snapped over his shoulder, despite the cat’s absence, but then he picked up the letter and broke the wax seal.  His mother had written the letter on fine stationery, reminding Kylo of the wealth he’d left behind when he’d abandoned her home for the coven in the heart of the forest, many years before.  Her familiar handwriting only covered about half of the page:

_My dear son,_

_I know you resent me for calling this man here, but he is not to blame.  Please be kind to him, even if you cannot find it in your heart to forgive me for summoning him.  I fear that if this settlement’s hatred and fear toward you continue, disaster will befall us—and the only way I could think of to ease their suspicions was to bring a witch hunter to “prove” your innocence to them._

_I chose Poe Dameron because of his reputation: he has never condemned a witch.  Every accused person he’s tested—some of them true witches with whom I’m acquainted—has been judged innocent and freed.  He confided in me that he became a hunter solely to acquit the accused and free the innocent.  Therefore, I have full faith that he will perform the tests upon you honestly and will free you as well._

_One slight surprise: Poe also confessed to me that he does not believe in witchcraft or witches at all!  Poor innocent boy.  It is better for you this way, though, because he will defend you with a pure heart and be all the more convincing._

_I beseech you again, please don’t be cruel to him.  He tries to hide it, but you fascinate him, and I don’t want him to be hurt because of my decision to bring him here._

_I remain,_

_Your loving Mother_

_P.S. When I first met Poe, he seemed familiar to me.  Only when I saw the two of you together did I realize why: he looks like the boy you said you used to dream of when you were little, grown into a man.  Do you remember those dreams?  You used to want so badly for them to be real._

Kylo’s hands were trembling by the time he finished reading the letter.  He let it fall to the floor as he tried to comprehend its import: _Poe’s only intention is to save me, and he holds no hatred for witches—how can he hate what he believes not to exist?  He won’t try to kill me, and I won’t be forced to fight him. . . and so I don’t have to drive him away._

He looked again at the letter, now slightly askew from where it had drifted to the floorboards, and at three of his mother’s words: “You fascinate him.”

_I fascinate him—as much as he fascinates me.  I was wrong, I don’t repulse him. . . and I don’t have to drive him away.  I can keep him here with me, if only I can convince him to stay._

_I can love him, and pray that he will remember his dreams and how he loves me._

Kylo snatched up the letter and folded it again, then stumbled to his feet.  Now he regretted not reading his mother’s letter right away, and he especially regretted throwing Poe out of his house.

_If only I could tell him everything immediately!_ Kylo lamented. _But he’d never believe it, and it might only frighten him away if I confess it all too suddenly._   As much as he wanted to chase after Poe and profess his love right then and there, Kylo decided on a more moderate strategy.   _I’ll have to get him to return here, to finish the tests.  While we’re together, I can try to help him remember the dreams we’ve shared, and I can. . . can court him.  Even if he never remembers, maybe he can learn to love me. . . ._

Kylo started for his bedroom, where he kept his own writing implements, but then he noticed for the first time that Poe’s cloak was still draped over the chair he’d used; in his haste to depart, the hunter had forgotten it.

_How very like him,_ Kylo thought with a fond but regretful smile.  _He’s probably so cold without it, but too ashamed—or frightened—to come back for it.  I’m sorry, my love. . . and I’ll make it up to you._

Kylo scooped up the cloak, and when he went into the bedroom, he found his needles and thread before his paper and ink.  The cat was lying on his bed, and it gave Kylo a suspicious look but didn’t let on if it was interested by his change in mood.

Although Poe really just needed a new cloak, Kylo mended the existing one as best he could.  When it came time to knot the thread, he paused and closed his eyes, thinking of the joy he’d experienced with Poe in their dreams and imagining having that joy in his waking life.  Then Kylo knotted the thread in a lovers’ knot, intended not only to bind Poe to Kylo but also to protect him.

_Even if I can’t be with you, my love will follow you,_ Kylo swore silently, _and may God protect you if I cannot._

Finally, Kylo put the cloak aside and took up his paper instead.  He wrote Poe a brief note—far briefer and saying far less than he wished to—apologizing for his outburst and asking Poe to return the next day.

“I hope he’ll come back,” Kylo muttered as he folded the paper.  The cat gave him a look that seemed sardonic, but Kylo chose to ignore it.

\--

To be continued


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short, but better a short update than none at all, amirite? Witch tests (and Kylo-spot-hunting) commence next chapter, though!

At first, Poe didn’t even realize he’d left his cloak behind; he was too upset.  He hadn’t meant to insult Kylo with his careless observation, and he cursed himself for it as he rode his horse back to the settlement. . . until he started cursing himself for forgetting his cloak, too.  The damp bitterness of the grey weather sank right through Poe’s clothes, chilling him thoroughly before he was even halfway to his destination.

_I certainly can’t go get back to get it,_ Poe told himself.  _I’m such a fool.  Kylo must think so as well—and he must hate me now, if he didn’t already.  All I wanted was to help him. . . ._   But that wasn’t entirely true: Poe had also wanted to see more of Kylo.  When Poe had touched the other man’s face, his pulse had raced, and his thoughts had raced with it, imagining what it would be like to uncover Kylo’s body, to brush Kylo’s pale skin with his fingertips. . . to search out every inch of Kylo’s flesh. . . .

“Stop it,” Poe hissed aloud.  He coaxed his horse into a trot, which made a breeze that chilled Poe further but also meant he would reach the warmth of the inn more quickly.  _Perhaps this is my punishment for those sinful thoughts, for wanting him,_ Poe thought.  _It’s just as well he drove me away._

Except that Poe still had a job to do, and it was going to be hard for him to prove Kylo’s innocence if Kylo wouldn’t speak to him. _What will I tell Mistress Organa?_ wondered Poe with a sigh.  _That I’ve failed her?  That they might drag her son to the stake, and it’s my fault because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut?_

By the time Poe reached the inn, he’d decided that his best course of action was to learn more about Kylo and the accusations leveled against him.  Perhaps, Poe hoped, he could explain away whatever it was the townspeople blamed Kylo for, thus clearing his name without actually testing him. _Or at the least,_ Poe thought, _maybe I’ll learn something that can help me get back in his good graces—something he likes, some way to please him._

After stabling his horse and warming himself by the hearth in the inn for some minutes, Poe crossed the street to the only other establishment where the townspeople gathered, besides the church: a small tavern.  Poe didn’t drink, but he had spent enough time in taverns before, seeking out information on accused witches—and sometimes seeking out the accused witches themselves.  This tavern was no different from any other, except a few more men were there than one would normally find in the middle of the day.  Poe assumed their presence was due to the cold weather and the early freeze that had killed off the last of the farmers’ harvest; without any crops to bring in, some men would have little with which to fill their time.

When Poe stepped in to the low-ceilinged, dimly-lit (and, thankfully, warm) room, the half dozen men there all turned to look at him.  Word of who Poe was and why he had come to the settlement had apparently spread just since yesterday’s meeting, for none of the men seemed surprised to see him.  Poe had been concerned that they might not welcome a stranger, and a witch hunter at that, but to his surprise, almost all of those present greeted him warmly.

Soon enough, Poe realized this was because they thought he was there to condemn Kylo Ren.  By mid-afternoon, Poe had heard what felt like a hundred different, ridiculous stories of how Ren had done everything from causing the birth of a deformed calf last spring, to making a magistrate’s well run dry, to bringing the early freeze that autumn.

“It’s all happened since he came back here, last All Hallows’ Eve,” the oldest of the men confided to Poe as they sat at a table near the fire.

“Came back from where?” Poe asked.  He knew from Mistress Organa that Kylo had disappeared for several years, but she had never mentioned where he’d gone.

“He hasn’t said so, of course,” the old man replied, “but he left nearly a decade before to join the witches’ coven in the forest.”

“The. . . witches’ coven,” Poe repeated, biting back a groan of irritation.  He remembered what Kylo had said about why the villagers’ feared the woods.  Of course, they would assume that their accused witch had gone _there_.

“Aye,” the man nodded.  “Mistress Organa didn’t tell you that?”

“Er, no, not exactly.”

Poe’s companion sighed, “The poor woman, she still tries to deny what he’s become, even though it’s no mark against _her_.  I always said the boy’s father is to blame, the worthless scoundrel.  But the mistress, you’ll not find a better, more Christian woman.  I knew that when the boy left her home and her good influence, he was lost forever.”

“Why _did_ he leave?” Poe wanted to know.  “What would make him want to go. . . erm, join a coven?”

“It was because of what he did,” replied the old man, rather cryptically.

Poe was almost afraid to ask, “Well. . . what did he do?”

“Again, he’s never said for certain what happened,” the man muttered, “and no one can prove it one way or the other, but it’s said he committed a murder.”

“ _Murder?_ ” Poe squawked.  As disagreeable as Kylo could be, Poe couldn’t imagine him killing another person.  He didn’t _want_ to imagine it.  “W-who—who was murdered?”

“There’s a large farm just north of the town,” said the old man, “owned by the wealthiest man in this area.  A boy disappeared from that farm ten years ago, just before Ren left for the coven.”  He paused and eyed Poe, who was staring at him with his own eyes wide.  Satisfied that he had the hunter’s attention, the old man went on, “The boy was the farmer’s bastard.  The man has enough influence that no one dared openly condemn him for it, but the son was shunned by the other children, except for Ren.  They all shunned him too—called him a witch even back then—so the two of them were sort of friends, I guess because neither of them had anyone else.”

Rather than turn Poe against Kylo, the story only made him pity the so-called witch.  Although Poe’d had a rough childhood himself, he had always made friends easily, and he couldn’t imagine growing up alone, scorned for being different from the others.   _I wish I had grown up here, with him,_ Poe thought wistfully.  _I would have been his friend, I would have tried to comfort him. . . and maybe he wouldn’t hate me now._

The man continued, “Then the bastard child just disappeared one night—one night when the moon was full.  Rumor holds that Ren tried to cast a spell on the boy and killed him on accident, because Ren couldn’t master the dark arts on his own and he lost control.  A few claim Ren outright murdered the bastard as a sacrifice to Satan, but I think that’s a mite hard to believe.”

_Really,_ thought Poe, hoping his disgust didn’t show on his face.

“So after that, Ren went off to the coven, so the witches there could teach him how to control his powers.  Most believe that he made a deal with the devil there, giving Satan free rein over our settlement in exchange for Ren’s training.  He got his witch name there as well: he left here as Benjamin Organa and returned as Kylo Ren.”

“What proof do you have that Kylo—that Ren _killed_ the boy, though?” Poe demanded.  “Did anyone ever find his body?  Maybe he just ran away if he was treated so poorly.”

The old man gave Poe a sympathetic look, as if he pitied the hunter’s naïveté.

“He was a fragile young man, too sickly to make it far on his own,” he told Poe.  “No, no body was found, but then there wasn’t much of a search.  Sorry to say, his father didn’t care much for him one way or another—in fact, I myself think he was glad to be rid of the boy.”  The old man sighed and shook his head.  “It’s an unfortunate situation all around, and bastard or not, the poor boy didn’t deserve such a fate.  And neither do the rest of us deserve to suffer from Ren’s witchcraft.  He should pay with his life for what he’s done to all of us, and now that you’re here, we’ll have the proof we need to exact that payment at the stake.”

Every part of Poe rebelled against what the man said: _No, Kylo doesn’t deserve to suffer any more than the rest of you do—and you’ve already made him suffer plenty.  That other boy probably **did** run away, and it’s no wonder that Kylo did too, with his sole friend gone.  The only mystery about all this is why Kylo bothered to come back at all._   Perhaps Mistress Organa was right, and her son did still hold some affection for her; at any rate, she was the only thing Poe could think of that might have drawn Kylo back to the town.

_And as for why he changed his name, who knows,_ Poe thought.  _Maybe he didn’t want to keep anything he got from this place, even his own name, even though it’s such a beautiful name.  Benjamin, Benjamin Organa. . . ._

Poe returned to the inn just before dinner time, in no better spirits than he had left it; instead of learning how he could protect Kylo Ren, Poe had only uncovered more ammunition against him.  His dark mood even affected his appetite, and he had started up the stairs, intending to forego dinner, when the innkeeper’s wife called his name.

“This was left for you, Master Dameron,” the short, middle-aged woman said as she came up to him, bearing a folded garment in her arms.  Poe recognized it as his own cloak, and he stared first at it, then into the woman’s myopic gaze.

“Left by whom?” Poe murmured.  He took the bundle from her.

“Don’t know.  My good-for-nothing husband was supposed to be minding the door but he’s gone off somewhere—probably causing trouble with Master Solo.”  She chuckled, obviously fond of the absent husband—whom Poe had never actually seen—despite having dubbed him “good-for-nothing.”  She continued, “But it must be for you, because there was a letter on top with your name on it.  I folded the letter up inside so it wouldn’t get lost.  Things tend to walk away around here. . . .”

Poe managed to stammer, “Thank you”; then he hurried up to his room with the cloak clutched to his chest.  _Kylo had to have brought it here,_ Poe thought.  _He came all the way to town to return it to me—and he wrote something to me?_   He could hardly get to the privacy of his room fast enough before spreading his cloak out on the bed.

Still, something distracted Poe before he could open the letter he found in the folds of the cloth: the tears in his cloak, which he’d never quite gotten around to having mended, were repaired.  Poe traced one seam with a fingertip, biting his lip.

_Did Kylo do this?  Why?  Why would he do something kind for me?_

Finally, Poe picked up the folded piece of paper that bore his name in an unfamiliar yet elegant hand.  It was sealed as Mistress Organa’s letter to her son had been, but Kylo had stamped a sigil in the blob of hardened wax, colored with a swirl of mixed hues of red and white.  Poe had no idea what, if anything, the sigil meant, but he thought it looked pretty.  At first he thought the paper was scented, as well—it smelled sweet, like the dried lavender he’d seen in Kylo’s cottage—but then Poe realized it only smelled like the cottage itself had.  That smell had been just one of the things that surprised Poe about Kylo’s home: despite the dreary appearance of the building’s outside, and its location on the edge of the dark forest, the cottage’s interior was downright charming.  Besides the pleasant smell, it had been warm and clean, with what seemed like a thousand bundles of beautiful plants and fruit hanging from the ceiling.  Hardly like the home of a witch, Poe had thought at the time.

Now, he lifted a fold of his cloak to his face and caught the same scent that clung to the letter, just from being left in Kylo’s care for a short time.  The smell reminded Poe of Kylo himself, and he pressed the fabric to his cheek before he understood what he was doing.

_I felt safe there with him,_ Poe realized, _at least until he started shouting at me.  I wanted to stay there. . . I wanted to stay with him._   Poe blinked hard and dropped his cloak, then broke the letter’s seal and unfolded the paper.  The words Kylo had written to him, though few, were as startling as the repairs he’d made to Poe’s clothing:

_My dear Poe,_

_Please forgive me for how I’ve treated you.  I have no excuse for my behavior, but I am sorry for it._

_I would like to ask you to return tomorrow to make your tests.  I promise to comply whole-heartedly._

_Yours,_

_Kylo_

“What?” Poe breathed aloud.  “What made him change his mind so completely?  Maybe everyone believes him a witch because he’s _mad_.”  The thought made Poe smile, and the smile grew as he reread the note.  _He called me “my dear,” and signed it “yours.”  And he wants me to return—to see him again._   Poe tried to tell himself that Kylo was only being polite, to make up for the earlier behavior he apparently regretted.  And of course Kylo wanted Poe to come back just so they could finish the testing.  Nevertheless, Poe’s eyes kept returning to the letter throughout the evening, from the time he finished dinner (which he quite enjoyed after all) until he fell asleep with his cloak spread over him beneath his blankets, and the letter still clutched in his hand.

\--

To be continued


	5. Chapter 5

When Poe rode up to Kylo’s cottage the next morning, he found the other man outside, doing. . . something.  Poe wasn’t sure what until he drew closer; then he realized that Kylo had been placing food on the ground some yards away from the front of his home.

Poe had time to wonder, _What if he really **is** insane?_ before Kylo straightened up and turned to face him.

“Good morning,” Poe mumbled as he dismounted from his horse.  While he tied it to a bit of fence near the cottage’s door, Kylo approached him and stopped a few feet away.

“Good morning,” he said.  He looked down at Poe with a somewhat anxious expression.

“Um. . . what were you doing?” asked Poe, not altogether sure it was a safe question.  _There’s no telling what will offend him,_ Poe thought.

But Kylo actually smiled, albeit faintly, as he answered.  “Oh. . . putting food out for the animals.”

Poe glanced around.  “What animals?”

Kylo’s smile grew a little.  “You think I’m insane, don’t you?  Or a witch.”

Poe jumped at hearing Kylo voice the very thought he’d just had, then stammered, “N-no, just. . . .”

“It’s all right.  But I’m not insane,” Kylo assured him.  “I feed wild animals, and birds.  Squirrels, deer. . . whatever comes by.”  He held out what food he still carried: two dried ears of corn and an apple.  “Squirrels and deer love corn, and some birds actually like fruit better than seeds.”

“Really?  I didn’t know—stop that!” Poe snapped at his horse when it turned its head and tried to bite the apple out of Kylo’s hand.  Poe pushed the horse’s head away as Kylo actually laughed.  Poe looked at the taller man in amazement; laughter made Kylo look a bit silly, but also far more approachable than usual.  Seeing him smile made Poe smile too.

“It’s all right,” Kylo chuckled.  “He can have it.  Here, hold these.”  He passed the corn to Poe then held out the apple and let the horse bite off half of it. Once the horse had chewed that, Kylo gave it the rest, held on the flat of his open palm, then scrubbed his hand across his thigh.  He nodded at the corn in Poe’s hands.  “Better put that out of his reach though.  The squirrels might put up a fight for it.”

Poe chuckled himself and set out the corn well away from his greedy horse.  Near that spot, Kylo had put out dried sunflower heads as well, for the birds to eat the seeds from their centers.

“You must have been preparing some of this food all summer,” Poe observed.

“Yes, I start hoarding early, so I’ll have enough food for them to last through the winter,” replied Kylo.  “When they come to eat, I enjoy watching them through the window.  But with the first frost arriving so early this year, I worry I won’t have enough for them this year.”  He sighed, and Poe gazed up at him until Kylo swallowed, making his Adam’s apple shift in his throat.

“It’s cold out here,” Kylo muttered.  “Wouldn’t you rather come inside?”

“Yes, I’m. . . .”  Poe trailed off in embarrassment, realizing he’d been staring at the other man.  “I’m sorry, I never thought. . . you don’t seem the type to. . . .”  He sighed too and looked away before blurting out, “You’re going to tell me to leave before I even get in your door.  I truly don’t mean to keep insulting you.”

Then Kylo laughed once more.  Poe stared at him again and felt a smile curl over his own lips.

“You aren’t insulting me,” Kylo assured Poe, “and don’t apologize to me—please.  I’m the one who should apologize, to you.”  He took a step toward Poe then seemed to change his mind, and he turned to open the cottage door.  Kylo let Poe go in first, and he closed and latched the door after following the hunter in.

“Poe—” Kylo began once they were inside.  He faced Poe and looked down at him, then cleared his throat.  “Poe, I am very sorry for how I’ve behaved since you arrived here.  Please forgive me.”

Amazed, Poe nodded and stared up into the dark, almost black, eyes that watched him so intently as he murmured, “It’s. . . it’s all right.  I could—could have been more polite myself.  But. . . .”  He struggled over how to phrase what he wanted to ask, but then he decided that the situation was too confusing for him to be anything but direct.  “But what changed your mind?  Why did you ask me to come back?”

“I read the letter from my mother,” Kylo told him.  “She explained to me who you were and why she’d written to you.  I realized that I had misjudged you—and her, I suppose,” he added with some reluctance.  Then, changing the subject, he went on, “Are you warm enough in here?  If so, I’ll take your cloak.”

“Yes, thank you.”  Still, Poe shivered when Kylo moved behind him and reached around Poe’s shoulders to unclasp his cloak from his throat.  Poe turned and watched the taller man hang the cloak from a hook near the door.

“Thank you for mending it, too,” Poe said.  “It was very kind of you.”  Kylo nodded and stood by the door, his large white hands clasped in front of him.

“I wanted to do something for you,” he murmured.  “And you. . . you looked so cold yesterday.  I thought perhaps you would be warmer with the holes sewn up.”

Poe nodded.  “I was.  The ride here was much more pleasant this morning because of it.  Thank you again.”

“Would. . . would you like some more tea?” Kylo asked.  “I can start boiling the water.  I have more of what I gave you yesterday, or some mixed with dried mint. . . or apple and cinnamon.”

“That—that sounds very nice,” Poe stammered.  “The apple one, I mean.  I like apples—well, I guess you knew that, I was eating one when you—”  He stopped before he said “when you told me to leave town,” then decided not to say anything else at all.  _He must think I’m a fool,_ Poe lamented silently, _rambling like this.  He just makes me so nervous. . . ._

“All right,” Kylo said when Poe didn’t continue.  As Kylo moved toward the kettle sitting near the fireplace, Poe watched him, wondering at his conciliatory behavior.

_He’s acting so differently today—is it really just because his mother wrote him about me?_ Poe wondered.  _He already knew my name and profession.  What more could she have said?_

“With which test do you plan to begin?” Kylo asked Poe as he hung the kettle, which he’d filled with water from a small cistern near one wall, over the fire.

“Oh. . . if it’s all right with you, I thought I’d start by searching your home for anything we need to conceal,” Poe suggested.  “Maybe while the water’s heating?  If. . . if you don’t mind showing me around.”

“There isn’t much to show,” Kylo observed, one corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile.  “Just this room and my bedroom, in the back.  You’re welcome to look for yourself.”

“Right.  Yes,” muttered Poe.  “You don’t have to show me.”  As he started looking over a small set of shelves at the rear of the room, Poe brooded,  _Now he really does think I’m a fool, and probably trying to insult the size of his home—when I don’t even have a home of my own. . . .  Living here would be a luxury!_

Poe sighed and rested his fingertips on a shelf as he examined its contents.  He was surprised to see a Bible there among a few dishes, a hammered metal bowl, and a little jug containing some dried flowers.  _He doesn’t go to meeting, but he has a Bible,_ Poe thought, _and he knew the Lord’s Prayer so well.  If he’s a heretic, he’s an unusual one. . . ._   Poe found no other books at all, none of the arcane palmistry references, horoscopes, or grimoires he had been taught to look for in the possession of suspected witches.  Not that many accused witches ever _did_ have books like that, but most accused witches weren’t as intelligent as Kylo.

_Or as strange, or as intriguing._   Poe shook off the thought and turned back to Kylo.  The taller man was still standing by the fireplace, watching Poe.

Flustered, Poe muttered, “Where do you keep your supplies of food?  The town fathers will probably want to see them—looking for spell ingredients, like I said.  I’m assuming you’ll have an innocent explanation for all of this,” he added with a wave of his hand toward the ceiling and the plant matter Kylo was drying there.

“Of course,” Kylo retorted.  “I use them all for seasoning, teas, or food.”  He reached up and flicked a bundle of dried purple flowers.  “Except for this, lavender.  The scent helps me sleep more deeply—and it eases headaches.  I have them frequently.”

Poe frowned.  “They might be suspicious of that, something that affects sleep and pain.”

“Suspicious of _lavender_?” Kylo’s deep voice took on a sharp tone for the first time that morning, and he gestured at another bundle of what Poe had taken to be mint.  “Should I hide the catnip too?  They might accuse me of casting spells on my cat once they see the way he acts under its influence.”

The glare he leveled at Poe wounded the hunter’s feelings, especially after how kind Kylo had been earlier.  Poe turned away, cursing himself for being so emotional.

“You needn’t get angry at _me_ ,” he muttered as he looked at Kylo’s rough but solidly built table.  It was empty save for the teapot and two cups, which had been set out before Poe arrived.  “I’m only telling you what the others might say.”

Kylo remained silent for a few seconds; then he sighed, “I know, Poe, I’m sorry.  It’s only—this is so ridiculous.  They will find what they want to find and believe what they want to believe.  It shan’t matter what I tell them, only what _you_ say.  Because you are the one with the training and the _knowledge_.”  He said the last word so disparagingly, it negated any relief his apology had brought Poe.  Clearly, Kylo didn’t think Poe knew anything, anything at all.

“You still haven’t told me where you keep your food stores,” Poe replied, as coldly as he could manage.  “Please show me so we can get on with it.”  Kylo frowned but went over to one corner of the room, where he crouched and hauled on a trapdoor Poe now noticed in the floor.

_I should have seen that before,_ Poe thought with some embarrassment.  _Maybe I really **am** a fool._

“You’re welcome to go check for suspicious potatoes, but you’ll have to duck,” Kylo informed him, gesturing down into the crawlspace accessible beneath the floor.  “The cellar is too shallow to stand up in. . . even for you.”  Heat flooded Poe’s face at the reference to his height—or rather the lack thereof.  He stalked over to the door and shot a glare up at Kylo, only to see the taller man watching him with a faint smile.  Not that the smile was unexpected if Kylo were mocking Poe, but the tone of it was startling: the smile was fond, almost tender, as if Kylo found Poe’s shortness endearing.

Poe lowered himself into the cellar; when he stood upright on the ground there, the floor of Kylo’s cottage was at about the height of Poe’s chest.  Poe crouched down and peered into the darkness under the house.  The cellar was indeed filled with potatoes, carrots, and other root vegetables, along with a few barrels and crates which Poe assumed held other food.

Poe sighed and thought, _I really should look in all of them, but. . . I already know I’m not going to find anything._   He straightened up again and braced his hands on the rough floorboards to push himself up and scramble out of the cellar, but the floor was just high enough to keep him from getting any leverage.  Poe glanced down for something to stand on so he could climb out, but he found nothing.

“Do you need some help?” Kylo asked before Poe could figure out another way to get out of the cellar.

“No!” Poe retorted.  “I. . . I’m just. . . .”  He glanced up at the other man, then just looked at Kylo in misery when he saw the broad smile on his face.  Poe sighed once more and finished, “I do need help.  I’m stuck.”

Then Kylo laughed, and it sounded deep and beautiful.  For the first time since they had met, Kylo actually sounded _happy_.  Despite his humiliation, the sound made Poe feel happy too.  _At least I can cheer him up,_ Poe told himself, _even if it’s only to laugh at me._

Kylo dropped to his knees beside the trapdoor and bent over it, stretching his arms down toward Poe.

“Here,” he said with a last soft chuckle.  “Hold on to me.  I’ll lift you out.”

Poe’s face warmed all over again as he reached up and put his hands on Kylo’s upper arms.  But then Kylo leaned forward even farther and wrapped his own arms around Poe’s chest, pulling them so close together that Poe was made to embrace him as well.  Kylo’s scent enveloped him, the same comforting smell that Poe had noticed on his cloak.

Kylo’s arms tightened around Poe, and he lifted the hunter up out of the cellar as if Poe weighed no more than a child.  Poe landed on his knees at the edge of the trapdoor and had to lean into Kylo to keep from losing his balance and tumbling over backwards, right back in.  For the brief moment that Kylo’s arms encircled him, Poe felt complete peace and security, as if nothing could ever harm him again.  His head rested on the larger man’s shoulder, and Poe closed his eyes and pressed his mouth against the rough fabric of Kylo’s shirt.

_I never want him to let go,_ Poe thought even though he couldn’t understand why, or from where the thought had come.  _I want to stay with him forever._   And Kylo just held him, as if he wanted it too.  Poe felt the other man’s head resting against his own and heard the whisper of a sigh.

Finally, Poe drew back, careful of the door, and got to his feet on trembling legs.  He turned away without looking back down at Kylo and pretended to be examining the fireplace until he heard the thump of the cellar door closing behind him.

_I cannot feel this way, I cannot allow it!_ Poe scolded himself.  _He is a man.  We could not be together even if—even if he wanted me, the way I want him.  God forgive me, I want him. . . ._   He dropped his forehead against one of the smooth grey stones that made up the fireplace mantle.  It had soaked up heat from the fire, and it radiated a gentle warmth onto Poe’s face.

“Poe?”  Kylo’s voice sounded hesitant yet full of concern.  “Do you feel unwell?”

“No,” Poe muttered as he straightened.  “No, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Kylo persisted.  “I was afraid you might have taken ill from riding without your cloak yesterday.”

“I’m not ill, I’m certain.”  Poe turned back to Kylo with a polite smile that felt forced.  “I see nothing in this room that might cause alarm as long as you explain your uses for the herbs.  Does that rear door lead to your bedroom?”

Kylo studied Poe’s face before replying, “Yes.”  He went to the door and opened it before motioning for Poe to go through first.  The room was quite small, and almost all of it was filled with a bed, on which Kylo’s cat slept curled into a tight orange ball.  A little window let it the daylight past filmy curtains, and the whole space felt homey and comfortable to Poe.

“Your home is very nice,” he murmured to Kylo.  The cat raised its head and stared at him.

“Thank you.”  Kylo stood just behind Poe, and the sound of his deep voice so close made Poe want to shiver.  “You’re not going to search this room, though?”

“There is little to search,” Poe pointed out, then added with a little laugh, “I suppose I could look under the bed.”  He dropped to the floor and did so before declaring, “Nothing under there. . . not even any dust.  You’re certainly the tidiest accused witch I’ve ever investigated.”

“You know how fond witches are said to be of brooms.”  Poe heard the smile in Kylo’s voice even before he looked up to see it.  “I choose to sweep with mine, rather than ride it.”  Poe got to his feet again and absently dropped a hand to the cat’s head to stroke it.  The cat hunched downward for an instant, away from Poe’s fingers, but then it fitted its head back under his hand and allowed him to pet it.

“There is nothing in here to concern even the most superstitious,” Poe told Kylo.

“You’re finished searching?”  Kylo’s question, and the curious look he gave Poe as he asked it, bewildered Poe.

“Er, well. . . where else is there to search?” Poe stammered.  Kylo regarded him another instant, then stepped to Poe’s left, to the wall opposite the bed.

“I have one more place to show you,” he said.  Poe turned to watch as Kylo spread his hands over a plank of the wooden wall, no different than any other.  Kylo’s fingertips caught on the plank’s edge and suddenly dislodged it.  The entire board came loose in his large hands.

“Oh,” Poe gulped.  He hadn’t noticed anything at all amiss, no crack in the tar between the boards, nothing to indicate that the wall concealed a. . . a _what?_   A secret compartment?

_I must have overlooked it,_ Poe scolded himself.  _Some hunter I am._

Kylo stepped back, still holding the board, and nodded toward the opening now visible in his wall.  “Go look for yourself.  That is where I placed anything I thought might. . . _concern_ the town fathers.”

Poe cast him a glance that wasn’t quite a glare—he couldn’t tell if Kylo were mocking him again or not—and went to peer into the wall.  The hollow it concealed was filled with items, predominantly a stack of books.

“So that’s where all your books went,” Poe muttered.  The one on top appeared to be Latin, which Poe couldn’t read although he knew a little Spanish thanks to his late mother’s tutelage.  He reached in to sort through the rest, most in Latin and one in Greek.  Poe couldn’t read that language either, and its title—Νεκρονομικον—looked like pure gibberish to him.

Besides the books, Kylo had hidden several small jars and bottles, a double-edged knife whose blade had been carved with intricate designs, and a lovely clear crystal that Poe thought might have been quartz.  None of the items, not even the books, was remotely troubling to Poe, but he understood why Kylo had hid them: any one could have been judged dangerous by someone looking to condemn its owner.

“It doesn’t seem that you need my help in preparing for a search of your home,” Poe pointed out as he stepped back from the wall.  “Nothing in there is troublesome, however.”

“You don’t read Greek or Latin, do you?” Kylo muttered with a smile that now, instead of being fond or amused, looked bitter.  He pushed the board back into place, and Poe looked at the wall glumly, still cursing himself for not noticing the removable plank before.  After all, the seam in the tar surrounding it was quite clearly visible now that Poe knew where to look.

“No, I do not read Greek or Latin,” Poe retorted, “and I’m sorry to disappoint you.  Apparently I lack some of the training and knowledge you thought I possessed.”

Kylo sighed and spoke in a tight voice, “Poe, I did not mean any slight upon your education.  No one else here reads those languages either, not since my uncle went away.  He was the one who taught me.  I only meant that you _would_ be concerned if you could read those books.  But if _you_ do not know what they are, neither will the town fathers.”

Poe glared at him, despite the dubious apology, and looked at the wall again.  Strangely enough, he could no longer tell which board was the loose one.  Poe looked for the seam in the tar but couldn’t find it.

To hide his disconcertion, Poe muttered, “Why did you show me your hiding place at all?  I wouldn’t have known it was there, and I’ll wager no one else will either.”

Kylo’s answer stunned Poe: “I do not wish to have any secrets from you.”  Poe turned back to the other man and stared up at him.

“Why?” Poe asked, his voice hardly more than a whisper.  Kylo regarded him a moment, then shook his head slowly, so that the waves of dark hair framing his face trembled.

“Finish your tests first,” he said.

He retreated into the main room of the cottage, leaving Poe bewildered and alone, except for the cat.  Poe finally followed Kylo, whom he found removing the kettle from the fireplace.

“What next?” the taller man muttered as he poured the hot water into his teapot.  “Shall I recite the Bible for you?  Or will you examine me first?”

“The recitation will be simpler,” Poe said, “as long as you don’t plan to recite the _entire_ Bible.  Let’s get that out of the way first.”

Kylo nodded and gestured for Poe to sit where he had the day before.  After he had finished preparing the tea, Kylo brought a cup to Poe, then sat in the opposite chair with the other cup.

“Is there a passage in particular that is best suited for witch trials?” asked Kylo.  He blew on the surface of his tea before sipping at it.

“The one which you know best and feel most comfortable with.”  Poe rested his cup and saucer on his knee and looked at them instead of at Kylo.  “The more confidence you exude, the more convincing your performance will be.”

“My performance,” Kylo repeated.  “You really _don’t_ hold any faith in these tests, do you?”

“Of course not.”  Poe raised his eyes to the other man’s in exasperation.  “I told you that.  There is no such thing as an accurate test for a witch, because there’s no such thing as _witches_.”

Kylo lifted his cup to his lips again and raised both dark brows.  “Odd that you would say that.”

“Why?” countered Poe.  “Because I am a witch hunter?”

“No,” said Kylo.  “Because I am a witch.”  Poe stared at him, then slumped back in his chair and brought his own cup up to slurp noisily at it.

“Stop it,” he muttered.  “Perhaps you don’t think the witch trials are a serious matter, but I can assure you, they are.  They’re nothing to joke about.”

Kylo’s steady gaze didn’t waver as he replied, “I know very well that they’re a serious matter, and I am not joking.”

Poe’s patience was running out, and although Kylo’s manner wasn’t exactly flippant, Poe couldn’t escape the feeling that the other man was making fun of him somehow.

“Speak your Bible passage,” ordered Poe, “and let’s get on with it.”

“All right,” said Kylo.  He took another sip from his cup, then set it down on the flagstones beside his chair.  When he straightened up, he fixed his eyes on Poe’s.

“Set me as a seal on thine heart, and as a signet upon thine arm,” Kylo murmured, “for love is as strong as death.”  Poe stared at him, feeling heat creep up into his cheeks.  He had been prepared for Kylo to recite the Scripture, but not for him to recite Solomon’s Song.

Kylo went on in a deepening whisper, leaning forward, “Jealousy is cruel as the grave.  The coals thereof are fiery coals and a vehement flame.  Much water cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it.”  When Kylo’s voice fell silent, Poe still could not look away from him.

“Do you recognize that passage, witch hunter?” whispered Kylo.

“O-of course.  Solomon’s Song,” Poe muttered.  He added, pointedly,  “An allegory of Christ’s love for the Church, and hers for him.”

Kylo’s full lips twitched in a half-smile.  “That is the usual interpretation, yes, but can’t you appreciate it as beautiful poetry as well?  As the expression of a lover’s devotion to his beloved?”

Poe finally managed to avert his eyes as he responded, “I was not taught to read it that way.”

“Of course not, and neither was I.  When my elders forced me to memorize Bible verses as a child, I was forbidden from memorizing any of _those_ verses.”  Poe heard Kylo chuckle.  “What a pity, as they are the most beautiful.  ‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth,’” Kylo murmured, speaking the very first verse of the chapter, “‘for thy love is better than wine.’  I memorized some of them anyway.  Did you?”

Poe had, but not out of appreciation for the verses’ beauty, nor out of rebellion against his elders.  Instead, he had always read Solomon’s Song with a sort of wistfulness for the love it expressed—as Kylo had said, the love between two human beings and not the allegorical love of Christ, as sacrilegious as it made Poe feel.  The verses Poe liked best were those which made him hope that perhaps someone could love _him_ that way, someday. . . those which forged a connection between him and the king’s beloved.

“I am dark, O daughters of Jerusalem,” Poe whispered, hardly aware that he spoke aloud, “but comely, as the tents of Kedar, and as the curtains of Solomon.  Regard ye me not because I am dark, for the sun hath looked upon me.  The sons of my mother were angry against me.  They made me the keeper of the vines. . . but I kept not my own vine.”

“My love, behold, thou art fair.”  The sound of Kylo’s deep voice made Poe start out of his reverie, and his eyes darted, hunted, to the other man’s pale face.  Kylo was still leaning forward, close to him, with his own black eyes fixed on Poe.

“Behold, thou art fair.  Thine eyes are like the doves,” said Kylo, and Poe’s face burned.  “My well-beloved, behold, thou art fair and pleasant.  Also, our bed—”

“Stop,” Poe interrupted him in a hiss.  “That’s enough.”  Poe tore his gaze away and brought his teacup to his lips.  It shook in his hand.  Mercifully, Kylo fell silent.  Poe wondered if the other man had chosen those passages specifically to embarrass him, but he wasn’t truly embarrassed; Poe only felt lonely and miserable.  Hearing Kylo’s beautiful voice speaking such words of love. . . _As if he were really speaking them to me,_ Poe thought.  _And now I have to look at him, at his body, and touch him.  Perhaps God truly has sent me here to test me—or to punish me by showing me what I most desire and can never have._

\--

To be continued


	6. Chapter 6

When Poe commanded him to be silent, Kylo knew that the hunter felt at least some of what he did; otherwise, the verses Kylo spoke wouldn’t have so affected him.  Poe’s hand trembled as he brought his teacup to his mouth, and Kylo felt as if his own heart were trembling in response.  Poe was not suffering from mere embarrassment, Kylo thought—no, his dark eyes had held a longing Kylo recognized when the witch whispered, “My love, behold, thou art fair.”

But Kylo said no more, and he waited until Poe had composed himself and raised his dark eyes to Kylo’s once more.

“Are you ready for me to examine you so we can finish this?” Poe muttered, as if forcing the words out.  Kylo nodded and drained the last of the tea from his cup, then set it on the floor beneath his chair.

“Tell me what to do,” he said.  “Do you wish me to undress?”  He didn’t choose the words deliberately, but Poe’s face darkened in a blush.

“Not all at once,” he mumbled.  He slurped down the rest of his tea as well and put his cup aside.  “I wouldn’t want you to catch cold.”  Of course, there was no danger of that happening beside the warm fire, but Kylo just nodded again when Poe went on, “Please remove your shirt for now.  Then you can put it back on before. . . removing anything else.”

Kylo kept his eyes fixed on Poe as he untied the laces holding his shirt closed at his throat.  Poe stared at the floor, hands folded in his lap, and Kylo finally looked away as he lifted the shirt’s hem over his head and stripped the garment off.

“All right, you may begin,” Kylo said.  When Poe stood, Kylo raised his eyes to the hunter again.  Poe stepped in front of him and looked down at his quarry.

“I’ll start with your face.”  Poe’s voice was hardly more than a whisper, and his hands felt clammy when he laid them against Kylo’s jaws, as he had the day before.

Kylo’s own voice sounded hoarse as he asked, “Where is your needle?  Don’t you have to test my sensitivity, witch hunter?”  Only after he spoke did he realize that the question might come across as resentful, or as a taunt.  Poe’s heavy eyebrows lowered in a near glare, but then he sighed.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, “so I’ll only use my fingers.  When we perform the tests for an audience, I may have to use a needle in a very few places, but there’s no need for it now.”  Kylo saw Poe’s throat shift as he swallowed; then the hunter slid the fingertips of his right hand up to a spot beside Kylo’s nose.

“Can you feel that?”  Now Poe really was whispering, and Kylo matched the timbre of his voice when he replied.

“Yes.”

“And this?”  Poe’s fingers moved a scant inch to brush another mark.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry for what I said yesterday,” Poe blurted out, “about your face.  I didn’t mean to offend you or to imply that. . . that you. . . .”

“No, it’s all right.”  Kylo dropped his eyes without moving his head in Poe’s hands.  “I know, I have many blemishes.”

“No,” said Poe.  He slid his fingers back down Kylo’s cheek to cup them beneath his chin, then stroked his thumb back to two spots in front of the larger man’s left ear.  “Can you feel that?”

“Yes.”

“They aren’t blemishes,” Poe murmured.  “You’re beautiful.”

Kylo’s breath hissed between his parted lips as he drew it in with surprise.  He jerked his eyes back up to Poe’s face, but Poe was still looking at where his thumb rested.  Then Poe’s eyes flicked back to Kylo’s with a frightened expression.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, nearly gasping.  “I-I didn’t mean—only. . . .”  Poe closed his eyes and took a long breath himself.

“It’s all right,” Kylo said.  He hesitated a moment, wondering how much he should reveal, but ultimately he decided they couldn’t keep dancing around one another forever.  _I’ll go mad if I have to keep denying what he does to me,_ Kylo thought.

Aloud, he went on, “You are beautiful as well.”  Poe’s eyes flew open and he stared down at Kylo, his fingers clenching under the larger man’s jaw.

“Kylo,” Poe whispered.  He bit his lower lip in a way that made Kylo ache inside, then muttered, “Don’t say such things.  I shouldn’t have either, it isn’t right.”

“Why not?” Kylo challenged, but Poe shook his head so firmly that Kylo fell silent, afraid to push him any further.

“Can you feel this?” Poe asked in a strained voice.  He touched his left thumb to more spots near the right side of Kylo’s nose.

“Yes,” said Kylo.  Poe dropped his hands to Kylo’s neck and brushed every mark there, trailing his fingers over the larger man’s skin until Kylo shivered and broke out in goosebumps.  He felt each touch.

“I’m going to look at your back now,” Poe said.  He moved out of Kylo’s sight, and the witch relaxed a bit. . . only to jump when Poe laid a warm hand against his right shoulder blade.

“I’m sorry,” Poe muttered, and Kylo gave a faint groan.

“Please, stop apologizing for everything, Poe.  You’ve done nothing wrong, and you’re being far gentler than you would have to be.”

Poe kept quiet a few seconds, then said in a calmer voice, “I’m going to slide my fingertips over your back—it will be quicker than touching each spot and asking you if you can feel it.  Just tell me when you _stop_ feeling my touch.”

“All right,” Kylo agreed.  He felt Poe’s fingers begin to move, tracing what felt like sigils and arcane symbols over the skin of his back, along his prominent vertebrae, across his shoulders.  Goosebumps raised again all over Kylo’s body, and his heart raced.  Then, abruptly, there was nothing.

“There,” he whispered.  “I don’t feel—”  He broke off when he heard Poe give a shaky laugh.

“Because I took my hands off.  I wanted to be sure you weren’t just not telling me.”

“Hmph, you don’t trust me?” Kylo snorted, almost playfully, and Poe laughed again.

“I’m beginning to,” he chuckled.  “But this is a tricky business.  I have to be certain you aren’t deceiving me.”

“I suppose you do,” sighed Kylo with a smile of his own.  He felt Poe’s hand rest on his shoulder, not searching or testing but just touching; then Poe withdrew it and moved around to stand before him.

“Now for your chest,” Poe murmured.  Kylo saw him swallow again; then Poe placed a hand on Kylo’s sternum.  Kylo looked down to observe Poe’s small, brown hand against his own white skin.  Poe spread his fingers, slightly to Kylo’s left, then gave a soft sigh.

“I can feel your heartbeat,” he said.

_It beats for you, my love,_ Kylo thought, _only for you._   He almost spoke the words aloud but stopped himself just in time.  _It would be too much for him, too soon._

“Even witches have hearts,” Kylo commented instead.  Poe’s sigh became a half groan.

He muttered, “Stop teasing me.  Now, I’m going to do the same thing here—just tell me if you stop feeling my touch.”  Poe’s second hand joined the first on Kylo’s chest; then he began to move both.  Kylo could easily feel the cracked, calloused skin of Poe’s fingers on his body, and he kept his eyes on the other man’s face.  Poe’s own eyes remained fixed on Kylo’s chest as he worked.

When Poe’s fingers neared his waist, Kylo tensed his abdominal muscles involuntarily.  Poe drew in a sharp breath as his rough touch moved over the ridges of Kylo’s muscles, and in turn, Kylo shuddered.  To his horror, Kylo realized he was becoming aroused from the sensation of Poe’s hands on him, and his discomfort only increased when Poe quickly shifted his hands back to Kylo’s chest, where they brushed his nipples.  Kylo fought back a gasp, but his nipples stiffened instantly, and Poe felt them do so judging from the way his eyes widened and his cheeks flushed.

“I’m—” Poe began, but he cut himself off before he got to “sorry.”  He sucked his lower lip in between his teeth and bit it.

Deciding that humor might be the best way to defuse the hunter’s tension, Kylo raised his eyebrows and commented, “I’m hardly insensitive there, but thank you for checking to be sure.”  Poe blinked then dissolved into laughter.

“Believe it or not,” Poe said between chuckles, “another sign of a witch is extra, um, nipples.”  He was blushing but grinning at the same time, and he seemed more relaxed.  “Another reason I have to check for marks on your body.”

Kylo had known that already, being well-versed in witch testing.  He also knew that some perfectly ordinary human beings had such a medical condition, but pointing that out to Poe would probably just put the hunter back on edge.

“As far as I know, I only have the usual two,” Kylo replied, “but you’re welcome to look for any I’ve missed.”  Poe laughed again, and his dark eyes sparkled in a way that made Kylo’s heart glad, for it was a sign that the hunter was finally enjoying his company, silly as the topic of discussion was.

“Maybe I should count,” snickered Poe.  He said, “One, two,” as he drew his thumbs over Kylo’s nipples.  The gesture was playful, but Poe’s touch sent a jolt of pleasure straight from Kylo’s chest to his groin, and he literally bit his tongue to hold back a moan.  Poe seemed innocently unaware of Kylo’s sensitivity to his touch, and he ran his fingertips along the lower edge of Kylo’s prominent pectoral muscles as if searching for anything unusual there.

“No, I don’t feel any more than that,” he laughed.

“Th-that’s good,” Kylo managed to get out.  His nipples were still stiff and almost aching for Poe’s fingers to return to them, and he had become aroused to the point of erection, all without Poe knowing it.  _He can’t know it, not yet,_ Kylo told himself as he took deep breaths in an effort to calm down. _It’s almost shameful how much I want him, and he’s only just now relaxing around me.  I can’t frighten him away now._

Poe made it difficult for Kylo to hide his desires, though.  He pushed his fingertips in a little, feeling the firm muscles in Kylo’s chest, then shifted his hands to the witch’s biceps and squeezed them.

“You’re very muscular,” Poe observed.  “More so than I expected.”

“What _did_ you expect?” Kylo muttered.  The sexual tension he felt made his voice sound harsh, and a crease of concern appeared between Poe’s brows.  He withdrew his hands and took a step backward.

Poe murmured, “I don’t know, it’s just that you seem so intellectual.”

“I can be intellectual and muscular at the same time,” replied Kylo.  He averted his eyes from Poe and willed his erection to subside.  “Since I live alone away from town, I have to do all the work here myself.  Chopping wood and drawing water builds muscle.”

“Here.”  Poe sounded distinctly unhappy as he bent to pick Kylo’s shirt up from the floor, then handed it to the larger man.  “I am finished with your upper body, so you can put this back on before you remove your pants.”

Kylo pulled his shirt on over his head as he fished for an excuse to avoid the inevitable pants-removal a few moments more, until he was certain he was no longer aroused.  As he tied the shirt at his throat and smoothed down his hair, he remembered the roughness of Poe’s hands on his skin and hit upon a delaying tactic.

He turned back to Poe and said, “Let me see your hands.”  Poe gave him a concerned look, that worried wrinkle still upon his brow; then he held out his hands to Kylo, palms up.  Kylo grasped Poe’s wrists and looked down at his fingers and palms.  Poe’s skin was calloused, dry, and even cracked in some places.

“Your hands are very rough,” Kylo murmured.  “I could feel them scratching me when you touched me.”  Poe made a soft “mmn” noise and tried to pull his hands back, but Kylo held his wrists fast.

“What do you want me to say, if I’m not allowed to say ‘I’m sorry’?” Poe grumbled.  “My gloves fell apart last winter, and I haven’t been able to afford new ones yet.  Would you prefer I use a needle after all?”

“No.”  Kylo lifted his eyes to Poe’s; the hunter was glaring at him now with a gaze both embarrassed and hurt.  Kylo sighed and let go of Poe, who immediately clasped his hands together at his waist, so Kylo couldn’t see the callouses anymore.

“Poe, I—”  Kylo broke off, looked away, swallowed, looked back.  “I didn’t mean to offend you.  Just as I know you haven’t meant to offend me.  We’re both very blunt men, I suppose.  At least, my mother was forever telling me to think before I spoke.  I wasn’t criticizing your beautiful hands, I promise.”

Poe’s expression had started to shift to one of cautious openness, but at the word “beautiful,” his cheeks flared with dusky color.

Kylo pressed on, “Please know that whatever I say to you, I don’t intend to hurt you.  And I promise I won’t be angry at anything you say to me.  All right?”

Poe nodded and whispered, “All right,” even as he wrung his small hands together.

“I have some lotion I can put on your hands to soften them, before you finish examining me,” Kylo went on.  At first, that had been his delaying tactic, but after seeing the condition of Poe’s skin, he wanted to medicate it for Poe’s sake and not his own.  “I’m sure those fissures in your skin hurt you, and this will help heal them.”

“All right,” Poe said again.  He lowered his head as Kylo got up and went to his bedroom, back to the hidden space behind the wall.  Kylo had cast a spell on the board concealing it, so that the opening would be invisible to anyone else, but clear to him.  He pried the board loose and took out a jar of the cream he thought would ease Poe’s discomfort.

When he returned to the fireplace, Kylo commented, “I hid this along with my books, since I know suspicious ointments are common witch paraphernalia.  But I assure you, it’s nothing more than a mixture of beeswax and some oils—including lavender, for the scent.”

“It does smell good,” Poe admitted when Kylo uncorked the jar.  “Did you make it?”

“Yes.”  Kylo gestured toward the chairs before the fireplace.  “Please, sit down, and put your hands out again.”  As Poe obeyed, Kylo sat in the chair opposite him and drew it closer, so that their knees touched and he wouldn’t have to stretch to reach Poe’s hands.  Poe laid them on his own knees, palms up again, and looked aside as if ashamed of them.  Kylo dipped his fingertips into the jar and kept talking in the hopes that it would put Poe at ease.

“You can keep the rest of the lotion if you want,” he said as he smeared some on Poe’s right palm then began to rub it in with his fingers.  “Rub it into your hands, and anywhere else you wish, before you go to bed each night.  You can also do so in the morning if you don’t mind smelling like lavender during the day.  I love the scent myself, but some people might consider it to be feminine.”

“Yes, I should probably only use it at night,” Poe muttered.  He finally looked down at his hand again, just as Kylo scooped up a bit more lotion and took Poe’s hand in both of his.  The hunter’s hand felt warm but also small and almost fragile clasped in Kylo’s long fingers, and the thought of Poe’s damaged skin, and how it must sting and burn, pained him.

“You need gloves too,” murmured Kylo.  He rubbed his fingertips over the heel of Poe’s palm, then slid one of his fingers in between each of Poe’s.  “I’ll let you wear mine when you depart today, but I know they’re too big for you.  Go ask my mother for some when you get back to town—if you’re embarrassed to ask for something from her, you can blame it on me and tell her I want them for some reason.  I think she still has some of my uncle’s, and they should fit you.”

When Poe didn’t reply, Kylo paused his ministrations and looked up.  Poe’s gaze was fixed on him, the blush evident again on his face.

“I. . . thank you,” Poe finally got out.  “But why?  Why are you being so kind to me?”

_Because I love you,_ Kylo thought.  _Because my heart breaks to think of you in pain, because I want to take care of you._   He tore his eyes away from Poe’s and set the hunter’s hand gently back upon his knee.

Kylo told him, “You said you didn’t want to hurt me, and I don’t want you to hurt either.  The world is a cruel place— _people_ are cruel.  I’m sure you know that.”

“Yes,” said Poe.  “I know it very well.”  Then, suddenly, Poe put his untreated hand into Kylo’s and clasped it.  “But you are not cruel, not at all.  I thought you so, at first, but now. . . there’s something you try to hide, isn’t there?  You were hurt once too, so now you pretend to be a cruel man in order to protect yourself.  Yet inside, you’re kind.  You’re good.”

Kylo stared at their intertwined hands, amazed at Poe’s perception.  _Is he really only guessing?_ Kylo wondered.  _Or does he remember, somewhere deep down inside, that he’s always known me?_

“You are right, but that isn’t what I try to hide,” Kylo whispered.  As he spoke, he took more lotion onto his fingers and began to massage it into the hand Poe had placed in his.  “Anyone in town can tell you what happened, what they say I did.  And why I left.  But you are right, if I push everyone away I can protect myself.”

“Is that why you told me I wasn’t welcome here?” Poe asked him.  “Because you were trying to protect yourself?”

“In part, perhaps.”  Kylo fell silent as he trailed his fingertips over the love-line on Poe’s palm, wondering how much he should reveal.  The line was prominent, strong.  Kylo’s finger left it and began to work the lotion in between Poe’s shorter fingers.

“And then when your mother assured you that I wasn’t here to hurt you. . . you became kind to me, instead,” Poe concluded.  “Kylo I—I have to be honest, I _did_ ask them in town about you, and they told me what—what happened.  About your friend, the boy who disappeared, and how they said you murdered him.”  A sick feeling settled into Kylo’s chest at the words, but he wasn’t surprised.

“I expected that someone _would_ tell you, sooner or later,” he muttered.

“You know I don’t believe you harmed him, don’t you?”  Poe’s voice sounded urgent, and when Kylo risked a glance up into his eyes, they looked concerned that Kylo might think Poe believed the rumors.

“I know,” Kylo whispered.  “You wouldn’t be here alone with me if you thought me a murderer.”

“I understand why you left town after that, too,” Poe whispered back.  “But what I _don’t_ understand is why—why did you return here, a year ago?  When I—when I left the town where I was born, when they drove me away, I _never_ went back, _never_.  Why did you?”

“I’m not certain,” said Kylo, truthfully.  “I suppose I could have gone somewhere else, where no one knew me. . . or I could have gone to where my uncle now lives, or to where my mother’s parents are.  But I had always lived here, before, so when I rebelled against the coven, I came back here.”  He paused as something occurred to him for the first time.  “Maybe. . . maybe I was drawn back here so you could find me.”

But Poe didn’t even hear the last sentence; his pretty mouth was working speechlessly before he finally got the words out.

“The—the _coven_?”  The look of shock on his face was so comical, Kylo had to work not to smile at Poe’s distress.  The hunter stammered, “Th-that old man at the tavern, he _said_ you went to join a ‘coven in the woods,’ but. . . .”

“I keep telling you that I truly am a witch,” Kylo pointed out, and he could no longer hold back his smile as Poe’s eyes widened even further.  As soon as he saw the smile, Poe’s surprise changed to a scowl and he tried to snatch his hand from Kylo’s grasp.  When Kylo clutched it and refused to let it go, Poe actually pouted, thrusting his lower lip outward in a way that made him look exceedingly kissable.

“Stop _saying_ that,” Poe growled.  “Stop mocking me.”

“I am not mocking you,” Kylo insisted.  When Poe turned his face away, Kylo reached out and grasped his chin, forcing the hunter’s eyes back to him.

Kylo whispered, “Look at me, Poe.  Believe me.  I am a witch, truly.  I left here a decade ago to join the coven at the heart of the forest, then a year ago, I left it again.  I had come to disagree too strongly with its leader for me to stay.”

“No,” Poe protested, shaking his head even in Kylo’s clasp.  “There is no such thing as witches.”

“You said you trusted me,” Kylo groaned as frustration rose in his voice, “and I told you I wanted to have no secrets from you.  Why would I lie to you, why would I make up such a thing?”  It was in fact the one secret Kylo _had_ always kept from Poe, even in the dreams they’d shared.  Once Poe became a witch hunter, once Kylo knew _why_ he’d become a witch hunter, Kylo had been too afraid to tell his only friend what he really was.  Only when Poe had appeared there in town, in the flesh instead of in a dream, did Kylo vow to reveal that he was a witch.  He had never imagined that Poe would refuse to believe him.

“I. . . I don’t know,” sighed Poe.  He had quit trying to pull away, and his eyes searched Kylo’s face.  “I—I do trust you.  But I can’t believe such a thing is possible!  For so long, I’ve known that witchcraft is only a superstition, something people blame for what they can’t understand, or an excuse when they want—when they want to get rid of a person.  And in all the years I’ve been a hunter, all the accused witches I’ve met—I’ve _never_ found a real witch!”

“Perhaps,” murmured Kylo, “the real witches wanted to keep their secret from you.  I agree with you that the tests are useless—but I say so because any witch can pass them.  I’ve passed them all so far, haven’t I? Doubtless many of the accused you tested were only normal humans, but I also do not doubt that at least a few were witches.  That is how my mother learned of you, I’m sure, and why she sent for you in particular.”

“What do you mean, that’s how she learned of me?”

“Her father is a witch,” Kylo told him, “and so is her brother, my uncle.  She is not, although she does possess some magical perceptions that ordinary people don’t.  My mother has remained in communication with other witches known to our family, and probably one of them told her about you.”

“I don’t believe this.”  Poe’s voice was no more than a hoarse whisper, and he closed his eyes tight as he gasped, “I don’t believe it, I won’t!”

“What would you have me do to prove it?” Kylo demanded.  “Cast a spell?”  Poe gave a sharp laugh, nothing like his earlier joyful laughter, and opened his eyes again.

“Yes, go ahead, cast a spell!”

“You’ve already seen one of my spells at work,” Kylo told him.  “The hiding place in my bedroom—you couldn’t see the break in the wall before I moved the board, could you?  And then after I replaced it, the break disappeared again.”  He knew from Poe’s startled reaction that he was correct, but Poe still shook his head again, stubbornly.

In his growing irritation, Kylo was tempted to cast something like a dramatic levitation spell, anything that would convince Poe of his honesty.  _But no, I can’t do anything that might frighten him away,_ Kylo despaired.  _I can’t risk losing him now, just because I’m impatient with him._   Finally, he realized, _I have to tell him the rest, it’s the only way._

“Poe,” he said as gently as he could manage.  He covered both of Poe’s hands with both of his and drew them together.  “Perhaps you will believe _this_.  Witches are said to have the ability to scry, correct?”

“Yes,” Poe admitted.  “I suppose you’re going to tell me you can scry.”

“I can,” said Kylo, “and for as long as I’ve been able to scry, I have seen you in my visions.”

Poe’s jaw literally dropped before he choked out, “ _Me?_ ”

“Yes, and even before I learned to scry, I was seeing you in my dreams.”  Poe only stared at him, now unable to speak, and Kylo clutched his hands tighter in a plea for the hunter to believe him.  “We have known each other for nearly our entire lives, in dreams.  I know you can’t remember them, because after all, you are not a witch.  But we were children together, we grew up together.  We. . . became men together.”  He didn’t dare to reveal more than that, to tell Poe just what he meant by “becoming men.”  Poe was already floundering; that much was obvious from his almost frightened expression.

“No, I can’t. . . can’t believe. . . ,” he whispered.

“Didn’t you feel anything familiar about me, when we met?” Kylo asked.  “Didn’t you feel that we already knew each other?  I _know_ you, Poe, I know all about you.  And I care deeply for you.  When you came here, I was afraid because of what you are, and what I am.  I was afraid I’d have to fight you for my life, and so I tried to drive you away.  But when my mother told me that you had never condemned a witch, that you had acquitted all the accused you’d tested, I knew I would be safe with you.”

He paused, judging Poe’s reaction.  The hunter said nothing.  His eyes had fallen to their hands, still tangled together, but when Kylo’s voice fell silent, Poe met his gaze again.

“Please. . . .”  Kylo didn’t know for what Poe pled, but then the hunter went on, “Please, stop.  Don’t say any more.  I already. . . I already feel. . . .”  He bit his lip, and Kylo’s blood coursed faster through his veins.  _What?_ he wanted to ask. _What do you already feel?  Do you already want me?  Do you already love me?_

“I’m sorry, but I have to say this.  I have to make you believe me,” whispered Kylo.  “Poe, I know why you became a witch hunter.  When you were eight years old, your mother was tried as a witch.  She was bound and flung into a lake, under the pretense that if she were a witch, the water would refuse to accept her body, and she would float.  She sank, and although this proved to her accusers that she was no witch, she drowned before they pulled her out.”

Poe’s dark eyes were wide again, now with a mixture of horror and pain.  The firelight reflected on the tears that filled them and puddled along their lower lids; then Poe blinked, and the tears spilled down his cheeks.

“Your mother told you that,” he rasped in a choked voice.  “Somehow, someone knew, and they told her, and she told you.”

“No,” Kylo insisted.  “ _You_ told me.  You told me when we were children, the night after it happened, when you had sobbed until you were so exhausted you fell asleep.  I found you in our dreams, still crying in your sleep, and I held you while you told me, and when you had finished, I swore to myself that I would never let anyone hurt you again.  I’m sorry I couldn’t keep that promise, Poe.”

“I don’t remember.”  Poe’s voice was still choked, husky with tears.  “I never told anyone.  They drove us out of town, my father and I, and I never told _anyone_.  And I never—I never dreamed about _you_.  I would have remembered!”

“You did tell me,” Kylo insisted as gently as he could.  “And you told me eight years later when you passed your tests to become a witch hunter, and it broke my heart because I thought that one day you might hunt _me_.  Because it meant I had to keep a secret from you, my dearest friend.  But now, now I thank the Lord that you _did_ become a hunter, because it has brought you to me in real life, not just in my dreams.”

He brought Poe’s hands up and pressed them against his mouth, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of lavender that clung to them from the lotion he’d applied.  They trembled in his grasp.

“You became a witch hunter to save the accused,” Kylo whispered, “to save the innocent, like your mother.  By acquitting them, using the accusers’ own damned tests, you would save them.  But you’ve surely saved real witches too, unknowingly.  And you’ve saved me.”

Poe was silent for so long that Kylo finally opened his eyes and raised them.  The hunter watched him, still weeping without effort or sound.

“Please, Poe, don’t cry,” murmured Kylo.  He let Poe’s hands go to reach out and wipe the tears from his face.  “I’m sorry I made you cry by reminding you of her.”  Poe allowed Kylo to rub away his tears, but then he stood up and turned his face away.

“I haven’t saved you yet,” he muttered.  “I still have to finish examining you, then I’ll go back to town and arrange for the elders to come witness the tests.”

Kylo felt disappointment flooding him when he realized that Poe was still refusing to believe him—refusing, in fact, to even consider the matter further.  Nevertheless, he knew he must be patient with the hunter of whom he was asking so much.

“All right,” Kylo said in an even tone.  “I must undress below the waist?”  _At least I’m no longer aroused,_ he thought ruefully.

“Yes.”  Poe’s cheeks flushed once more as he looked at Kylo again.  “Just, um. . . just stand and lower your pants to your knees at first.  I’ll—I’ll examine you there, then you can sit and cover your lap for me to look at your legs.”  The hunter’s obvious embarrassment was so endearing, it amused Kylo and lightened his mood.  He also had to admit to some relief that he wouldn’t be bared for all of Poe’s examination; he was still self-conscious about being exposed, as well as concerned that the hunter’s touch would excite him again.

Kylo stood and unfastened his pants, lowering them to his knees as requested.  The hem of his shirt afforded him some modesty for the time being.  Poe’s eyes dropped to look at Kylo’s white thighs, and the hunter swallowed hard before he moved to stand in front of Kylo.

“I’ll hurry,” Poe mumbled.  He dropped to his knees, and the sight of him kneeling there before Kylo made the larger man’s blood rush directly to his groin.

_No, no, **no,**_ Kylo cursed himself.  He closed his eyes and tried to think of anything but Poe: the weather, whether he’d dried enough corn for the squirrels’ winter food, the firewood that still needed chopping, _anything_ but Poe Dameron on his knees, lifting the hem of his shirt, drawing in a quick breath when he saw—

“You’ll have to hold up your shirt,” Poe muttered.  “I need to use both hands.”

Kylo opened his eyes despite his certainty that it was better if he didn’t look.  He grasped the bottom of his shirt and held it up and watched Poe looking at his penis.  Poe glanced up, saw that Kylo saw him, and flushed even darker.

“You’re very well-endowed,” mumbled the witch hunter.  “But I suppose you knew that.  And as far as I know, that’s not a sign of being a witch.”  Kylo managed a shaky laugh, and Poe smiled, perhaps relaxing the tiniest bit.  He put both hands on Kylo, fingertips at the base of his shaft, and that was all it took for Kylo to begin coming erect once more.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed, giving up on resisting the inevitable.  “It’s just that no one else has. . . has ever touched me there.”  Poe blinked, and his smile widened a little as he glanced up again.

“Truly?  You’ve never had a lover?”

“Never,” said Kylo, amending silently, _Except for you, and only in my dreams.  But if I told you that now, you’d run away, wouldn’t you?_

“Neither have I,” Poe whispered.  Then, as if he hadn’t meant to say it, he looked down again and resumed his examination, stroking downward lightly with his fingertips.  “I suppose you can feel that—well.  Yes.  I can tell that you can.”  He laughed too, more naturally, and said, “Please don’t be ashamed.  It is a very natural reaction to being touched, and anyhow, I don’t see anything. . . erm, amiss.”

“That is good to know,” Kylo returned, fighting back a sigh of disappointment when Poe let go of his partial erection.  But then Poe reached between his legs to cup his scrotum, and Kylo had to fight back a groan of pleasure instead.

“No marks there either,” observed Poe.  He let go and drew back, then stood and moved behind Kylo.  “I’m almost finished,” he remarked, just before Kylo felt his hands—now soft from the lotion—brushing his buttocks.

“Can you feel this?” Poe asked as he rubbed a fingertip across the swell of one.

“Yes,” Kylo hissed.  He was almost completely erect again, and it was both a relief and a disappointment when Poe announced that he could sit down, remove his shoes and pants, and cover his lap.  He did all three while Poe looked away.

“I am ready,” Kylo said when he was seated with his pants draped over his lap, concealing his arousal.  Poe turned back to him and crouched in front of the chair.  He took one of Kylo’s large, pale feet in his hands and stroked the top of it, touching a mark there.

“Do you feel that?”

“Yes.”

Poe lifted the foot and looked beneath it, then announced, “Nothing on the sole.  Fortunately. . . it might tickle if I touched you there.”

“I am not ticklish,” Kylo informed him.

“No?”  A truly devilish look passed over Poe’s handsome face, and he suddenly put his fingers beneath Kylo’s foot and tickled the arch.  Kylo smiled, but only at Poe’s antics.

“No,” he said.  “When are you going to believe what I tell you?”

“Hmph, everyone is ticklish _somewhere_ ,” Poe declared.  He set Kylo’s foot down and took up the other.  “I’ll find your weakness eventually.”

“I’m sure you will,” murmured Kylo with enough import that Poe’s mischievous smile faded.  He examined the other foot without speaking, then placed his hands on Kylo’s ankle.

“Tell me if you cease to feel my touch,” Poe said.

Kylo felt the hunter’s softened fingertips drift over his shin and calf, upward to his knee, and he murmured, “I felt your touch always.”

Poe checked the other leg in the same manner before nudging Kylo’s knees apart and moving between them.  Kylo’s heart thudded in his chest, and his groin throbbed.

“Only your thighs left,” Poe said.  He slid a hand under Kylo’s right knee and lifted it to look at the back of the thigh.  He touched a spot there, which Kylo could feel, then lowered that thigh and checked the other one.  Finding nothing, he put his hands on Kylo’s inner thighs and pushed slightly to spread them.  Kylo had come fully erect under the cover of his pants spread across his lap, but Poe appeared ignorant of that fact.  He brushed his hands over Kylo’s pale flesh, then drew back.

“I’m finished,” muttered Poe.  He cast one last look up at Kylo’s face before he stood and turned away.  “You can get dressed again, then I’ll take my leave of you.”

Kylo put his pants back on, followed by his shoes, as he wished for some excuse to make Poe stay.  He could think of nothing, however, and when he was dressed, he got up and went to the door leading into his bedroom.

“I will get my gloves for you,” he said over his shoulder.  “You can return them to me when you come to conduct your tests for the town fathers.”

“Will you be all right without them?” Poe called after him.

“Yes, I shan’t need to be outside much,” Kylo lied.  He had wood to chop, after all, but he would rather his own hands go bare than Poe’s.

“I’m taking the lotion too, if that’s still all right,” Poe added.  “It does make my hands feel much better, so I am grateful.”

“You’re welcome to it.  I can always make more.”  Kylo returned with the gloves and found Poe waiting beside the door, already wearing his cloak.  Kylo stopped and looked at the hunter with a longing Poe must have read on his face.

“Why do you look at me so?” Poe asked in a hoarse voice.  “So sorrowfully.”

“I do not want you to go,” Kylo replied.  He went over to Poe and held out the gloves, which the smaller man took.

“Yesterday you couldn’t get me out the door fast enough,” Poe pointed out with a strained smile.  “And now you wish for me to stay?”

“Yes,” Kylo murmured.  “Poe. . . .”  He reached out and touched his fingertips to the side of Poe’s face.  The hunter flushed but at the same time parted his lips; then his eyes closed, and he tilted his hand into Kylo’s touch.

“Please, don’t,” Poe whispered even as he brought his empty hand up to cover Kylo’s.  “Don’t touch me, don’t speak to me this way.  I can’t bear it.”

“Don’t, Poe?”  Kylo took a step closer to him, until he was almost close enough to brush the hunter’s face with his lips.  “Do you mean that?”

“Y-yes, I. . . Kylo. . . .”  Poe gave a soft groan and opened his eyes to stare up into Kylo’s.  “Oh, but I don’t mean it, I don’t want to go either.  But I must, for if I stay, I’ll only—I’ll only want you more!”

“Poe,” Kylo breathed.  He stroked Poe’s cheekbone with his thumb.  “It is all right, I want you as well.”

Poe’s brow creased again, and he protested, “It is not ‘all right’!  It is sinful and—and humiliating.  When I was examining you, I wanted you so, I could hardly stand it.”

“I tell you, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Kylo assured him.  He put his other hand to Poe’s face and tilted the hunter’s head back to look into his eyes.  “And it is not a sin.”

“Yes, yes it _is_ ,” Poe nearly groaned.  “If you know the Bible as well as you seem to, you’ll know _that_ as well.  The sin of Sodom—”

“Sodom,” Kylo said, “was destroyed because of the evil in its inhabitants’ hearts—the desire of its men to rape the guests they should have honored.  Not because of love, men who loved other men.”  Poe stared up at him, apparently never having considered the incident from that angle before, but then shook his head.

“But it condemns. . . .”  He trailed off and only looked up at Kylo miserably.

Kylo whispered, “Does it condemn the love between David and Jonathan, who kissed and wept when they were parted?  Or Daniel, whom God brought into ‘tender love’ with Ashpenaz?  Did Christ condemn the centurion who loved his slave?”

Poe did not speak, but the anguish in his eyes softened.  Kylo held his face and leaned closer, as mesmerized by Poe’s dark eyes as Poe was by Kylo’s.

“The Lord said to Jeremiah, ‘Before I formed thee in the womb, I knew thee, and before thou camest out of the womb, I sanctified thee,’” Kylo told him.  “And in the same way, He knew us and formed us, just as we are.  If it were a sin for us to desire one another, would He have made us this way?  Surely you cannot believe that God would be so cruel.”

Poe still looked up at him, and for the first time since they’d met in the waking world, Kylo saw hope in his gaze.

“No,” Poe whispered, “He couldn’t have formed us this way only to damn us for feeling. . . for feeling desire.  Not the desire of Sodom—I wouldn’t want to hurt you for the world.  I only want. . . .”  He did not finish, and Kylo wondered what he left unsaid.   _Do you want to stay with me forever?_ he asked Poe silently.  _Do you want to love me?_

His eyes fell to Poe’s mouth, the parted, peach-colored lips that were so perfectly formed.

“Poe,” Kylo asked hoarsely, “please, may I—may I kiss you?”  Despite the doubts he had voiced, Poe’s eyes lit up, and his answer came in a breathless whisper.

“Yes— _please_.”

Kylo bent his head and closed his eyes, then touched his mouth to Poe’s.  He felt Poe draw in a breath then purse his own lips.  Poe kissed him like that, closed-mouthed and sweetly like a child; then to Kylo’s surprise, Poe parted his lips and drew his tongue over Kylo’s mouth.  Kylo opened it in response and flicked his own tongue out to meet Poe’s.  When they touched, a soft noise came from deep in Poe’s throat.

Kylo surprised himself with his answering groan; but Poe’s mouth felt so perfect, so _right_ against his, Kylo couldn’t contain the noise of desire.  He clutched Poe’s head in his hands, then felt Poe’s arms go up around his neck and pull their bodies closer.  Poe kissed Kylo as fiercely as Kylo kissed him, both of them hungry and desperate for one another.

When Poe finally broke the kiss, he drew back no more than an inch then returned his mouth to Kylo’s for more, softer, gentler caresses.  They kissed over and over, but then Poe suddenly pulled away from Kylo completely, taking a step backward and breathing hard.  His lips were swollen, flushed from peach to a darker rose and wet with their mixed saliva.

“Poe,” Kylo gasped, barely coherent, “stay, please.”

“I-I can’t.”  Poe shook his head so hard, the black curls of hair danced around his face.  “Kylo, I. . . I don’t know, I don’t understand—what’s happening to me?  I’ve, I’ve never felt. . . .”  He brought his hand, still clutching Kylo’s gloves, to his mouth and closed his eyes.  A shiver worked through his small body, and Kylo longed to hold him and comfort him. . . to kiss him and beg him to stay.

_But I can’t.  He needs time,_ Kylo thought.  _I have to give him time—I can’t ask too much of him, too soon._

“It’s all right,” he forced himself to say.  “Will you—will I see you again soon?”

“Yes, I. . . .”  Poe shook his head again, this time as if to clear it, then started over.  “Yes, I will return to town and speak to the elders about coming here to examine your home and witness your testing.  I believe that with your mother’s urging, they’ll agree to do it right away.  Will it be all right with you if we come tomorrow morning?”

“Yes,” Kylo nodded.  “The sooner it’s over with, the better.  But. . . .”  He couldn’t keep from asking, “After the tests are complete, are you going to leave town?”

“I. . . I don’t know.”  Poe gave him a baleful look.  “I don’t think I know anything right now—except that I’m going to do whatever it takes to protect you.  I won’t let them condemn you, I swear.”

“I know you won’t,” whispered Kylo.  “I have faith in you, Poe.”  Poe gave him a weak, strained smile then pulled on Kylo’s gloves.  They were far too large for him, as Kylo had known they’d be.

“Thank you for the loan of your gloves,” Poe murmured.  “I’ll bring them back to you tomorrow.”

“You are welcome.”  It took all of Kylo’s resolve to remain where he stood as Poe nodded, turned to the door, and let himself out.  Poe looked back once and hesitated, but then he was gone, closing the door firmly behind him.

\--

To be continued


	7. Chapter 7

That night, Poe dreamed about Kylo.  It was not like one of the dreams Kylo had described, where he and Poe had known each other for years;  instead, it was an ordinary dream. . . if Poe could call it ordinary to have a lustful dream about another man.  He dreamed that he was once more searching Kylo’s body, but this time it was completely bare and Poe used his mouth as well as his fingers, kissing every spot he found and murmuring, “Can you feel this?”  At each touch, Kylo gasped or moaned an affirmation, and by the time Poe moved between his thighs, Kylo was fully erect.  Even after Poe awoke, the image of Kylo like that—legs spread, staring down at Poe over his erection, pleading for Poe to relieve him—remained burned in his mind.

Poe woke up with a start, panting and painfully aroused himself.  He fell back against his rented bed’s comfortable down pillows and closed his eyes in a fervent prayer for forgiveness.  However, his attempts at confessing his sinful lust to God dissolved into the thoughts of Kylo that had plagued him ever since he left the other man’s cottage.

Poe had ridden home with his heart pounding and his face flushing whenever he thought of that deep voice begging for a kiss and those full lips pressed against his own.  He tried to push the thoughts away, unprepared to consider whether or not they were sinful, whether or not Kylo’s enumeration of scriptural proofs to the contrary was accurate.

 _I can’t worry about that now,_ Poe told himself.  _Right now, my duty is to acquit him, and I can’t allow my own weakness to interfere with that.  I can’t be biased, I can’t show him any favor, or the elders won’t believe in the accuracy of my tests._

He managed to keep Kylo’s kiss from his mind once he got back to town, stopping first at Mistress Organa’s house.  In Poe’s opinion, she seemed surprised both that he had already finished his tests and that they’d gone as well as they had. . . although of course Poe left out most of the details in his description of what had transpired at Kylo’s home that morning.  Mistress Organa accompanied Poe to visit the three religious leaders who would witness her son’s trial, including the preacher Poe had heard at meeting.  The latter man acted truly pleased that Poe had come to town, and that the rumors of Kylo’s witchcraft would soon be put to rest, and Poe did not think he would have any trouble convincing the kindly minister of Kylo’s innocence.  The other two men, however, were dour and stern, and while they behaved politely toward Mistress Organa, they eyed Poe with a skepticism that worried him.

Poe retired early that evening, but not before spending some time in the inn’s great room, warming himself before the fire in preparation for the cold night ahead.  The husband of Goodwife Kanata, the innkeeper, had returned from his hunting trip, accompanied by the “Master Solo” his wife had mentioned.  The husband was abnormally tall—literally twice the height of his tiny wife—and likely the most hirsute gentleman Poe had ever met.  He spoke little but welcomed Poe warmly.

Master Solo, however, kept glancing at Poe with suspicion, though of a different sort than that shown by the elders.  His look held not doubt, but a kind of bewilderment mixed with curiosity.  He was an older man with grey hair and a rugged face still handsome despite its lines and creases; his features were pleasant, and he behaved politely when introduced to Poe.  Yet he made Poe nervous because of his close scrutiny.

Only late in the conversation, just as Poe was about to return to his room, did he understand why Master Solo looked at him that way: the man was Kylo’s father.  Poe learned this fact through an offhand comment made by Goody Kanata, although she cast Poe a significant glance after she spoke, and he got the impression she was making sure he knew of the relationship.  Poe didn’t know why Solo and Kylo’s mother had different family names, or why Kylo had used his mother’s name when he went by “Benjamin Organa”; but Poe suspected some contention lay among the little family unit, and he decided not to inquire about them further.  Anyhow, every time Master Solo gave Poe that puzzled look, Poe thought of the lust he harbored for the man’s son and became too embarrassed to meet his eyes.  He didn’t think he could have spoken to Solo even if he had to.

Poe soon retreated to his bed, where he fell asleep quickly despite the turmoil raging inside him.  But then he had the dream, and when he awoke in the throes of desire, further rest felt far away indeed.  He lay in bed with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, illuminated by the light of the waxing moon that shone in past the shutters of his window.  Finally, Poe gave up on sleeping for the time being, and he sat up in bed.  When he leaned over to the bedside table to strike his flint and light the candle that sat there, he saw Kylo’s gloves where Poe had laid them before retiring.  Mistress Organa had lent Poe a pair of smaller gloves which fit him much better, but he liked the way Kylo’s had felt engulfing his hands.  It reminded him of Kylo’s hands covering his, massing the lotion into them.

 _Large and warm,_ Poe thought as he scooped the other man’s gloves up in his hands and brought them to his lips.  _He would feel like that, surrounding me in his arms and holding me.  I feel safe with him. . . like I belong there._   He set the gloves aside and took up the jar of lotion Kylo had given him instead.  Poe uncorked it and smoothed some of the concoction on his palms, then slowly began to work it into his cracked skin.

As Poe looked down, he remembered Kylo calling his hands beautiful, even though they were rough and worn.  He wondered, _How can he find me beautiful when he’s so magnificent and I’m so plain?  Does he really mean it, or could he be trying to manipulate me?_   Poe didn’t want to believe such a thing of Kylo, but other accused witches had tried to win his favor before, believing him to be like the many dishonest hunters who would fabricate evidence if they wished to condemn someone.

Did Kylo really think he had to charm an acquittal from Poe?  It would help to explain the sudden change in Kylo’s behavior, the change from utter disdain to praise, from ordering Poe out of his home to begging him to stay.  Not to mention all the other nonsense Kylo had said about having dreams and visions of Poe, about really being a witch. . . .

 _But why would he insist on claiming to be a witch, if he’s trying to wring an acquittal from me?  That doesn’t make sense,_ Poe realized.  Other things came to him: what Kylo had somehow known about Poe’s mother, the way he’d managed to conceal the hiding place in his room so well.

 _What if he’s telling the truth?  What if witches **are** real. . . and he is one?_   Poe shuddered.

“No,” he whispered aloud, “there’s no such thing.  He’s only teasing me.”  In fact, maybe it was _all_ just teasing, Kylo wooing Poe only because he found Poe amusing.  Maybe after Poe left the cottage, Kylo had laughed at how willingly Poe had kissed him, how easily the hunter had fallen for him and the ridiculous things he said.  That possibility was even worse than being manipulated, worse and far more humiliating.

Then another thought came: _Why can’t you simply trust him?  Why can’t you believe that he finds you desirable?_   Poe had never been able to trust much of anyone besides the Lord; everyone else in his life had let him down in one way or another.  But maybe Kylo was different.

 _Maybe,_ thought Poe, _he could love me someday._   For a moment, Poe ceased to care that Kylo was a man; he wouldn’t have cared even if Kylo really were a witch.  For a moment, he _did_ trust Kylo, and Poe imagined staying there with him, not for the day but forever.

Poe sat with his hands resting on his thighs as he thought all those things, breathing in the smell of lavender from the lotion Kylo had given him.  The scent pleased Poe because it made him again recall Kylo’s hands caressing his own, and Poe brought them now to his face and inhaled.  The warmth of his skin reminded him of the warmth of Kylo’s flesh beneath his fingertips.

 _I touched him **there** ,_ Poe thought, his own skin heating up in a deep blush.  _I touched him, and he responded, he almost got aroused. . . ._   That memory was even better than Poe’s dream, because it had really happened.  Although he felt some guilt over the self-indulgence, Poe dropped a hand back to his lap and rubbed himself through the long shirt he’d been sleeping in.  His whole body tensed at the pleasurable sensation he so rarely allowed himself, but he wanted far more.

_I want **him** to touch me there, the way he touched my hands. . . rubbing me, stroking me.  He said he’s never had a lover, and I want to be his first.  I want to be the only lover he **ever** has, and him to be mine._

With that thought, Poe gave in entirely.  He lay back against his pillow and tugged his shirt up to his waist.  The sudden exposure to the room’s cold air made him shiver.  Poe scooped a little more lotion onto his fingertips, then with a trembling hand began to stroke himself.  Lubricated by Kylo’s lotion, Poe’s hand glided over his erection, and the warmth of his flesh made the scent of lavender even stronger.  Poe groaned with the feeling of pleasure that washed over him as he closed his fist around his erection and began to pump it.

“Kylo,” he whispered, “Kylo, please. . . .”  For an instant, he felt silly, imagining what he must look and sound like performing such a depraved act and talking to himself at the same time; but saying the name of the man he desired heightened Poe’s pleasure, and he whispered it a third time: “Kylo. . . touch me, please.”

Poe bit his lip to hold back a louder groan.  The strokes of his hand sent waves of pleasure through him, not just his erection but all between his legs and into the pit of his stomach.  He rested his free hand on his chest, then recalled how Kylo had reacted when Poe had brushed his nipples, gasping and flushing before making some joke about it.

 _Did it feel good?_ Poe wondered.  _Did he like me touching him there?_ He pushed his hand up under his shirt and rubbed his fingertips over his own right nipple.  A spark of pleasure lit beneath them, and his erection twitched in his other hand.  Poe’s eyes widened.

 _Dear God, I touched him there, and I didn’t know it felt like **this**._   Poe closed his eyes in a mixture of humiliation and exhilaration, and he rubbed and pinched each of his nipples in turn as he kept pumping himself.

“Kylo!” Poe hissed through teeth he was clenching against the force of all he was feeling.  “Kylo, please. . . .”  This time, the name sounded wrong, _felt_ wrong.  Not because Poe was ashamed—he was beyond shame at that point.  Instead, Poe wanted to say Kylo’s other name, his real name.

“Ben,” Poe whispered, and everything fell into place; everything felt _right_.  An impression, like a flash of memory, passed over him: Ben lying behind him, their legs tangled together and Ben’s hand on him like that, stroking and pleasuring him while Ben held Poe in his other arm and whispered against his ear, “I love you, Poe, I love you.”

Poe gasped, “Ben!” as he imagined the fantasy was true and it was Ben’s hand on him instead of Poe’s own, as he imagined that Ben loved him.  A sudden, painful knot of pressure formed in his groin, and Poe’s back arched as he pumped himself faster, trying to release it.  Words fell from his lips when his body began to shudder: “Ben, I love you too, oh I love you—”  Then they were cut off in another gasp as he climaxed, shooting a stream of his seed onto his abdomen before spilling the rest over his hand.

Waves of trembling passed through Poe’s body as he lay there, unmoving, for several moments after he finished.  He managed to hold back his sense of guilt long enough to ponder what he’d imagined—what it felt like he’d _remembered_.

 _No, it wasn’t a memory,_ Poe told himself.  _Only what I wish were true, what I can never have._

Once his trembling had ceased, Poe got up and cleaned himself off as much as he could using the cold water in his room’s pitcher and basin.  He started to get back into bed, but his eyes fell on the small Bible resting on the bedside table, on the edge farthest from the bed.  Poe’s guilt crashed down around him, not only for what he’d done but also for placing Kylo’s gloves closer to him than he had kept the Word of God—his mother’s copy of the Word of God, in fact.

 _If we were saved by works alone, it would follow that we’d also be damned by works,_ Poe thought, _and I would be tumbling into Hell at this very instant._   He dropped his eyes closed an instant to pray, _Forgive me, Lord. . . and forgive me, Mama._

But then Poe thought again of the Scripture Kylo had cited about the men who had loved one another.  Since sleep was still far away, Poe scooped up his Bible and got back in bed with it.  Of course he had read it cover to cover several times, and of course he was familiar with the people Kylo mentioned; but Kylo’s words made him wonder if he had missed something in those passages before.  With his fingertips, Poe caressed the brown leather cover, worn soft and darkened first by his mother’s hands and later by his own; then he opened the book and flipped the pages to the middle of Genesis.  From the time he was a child, Poe had loved how the Bible’s pages felt: silky and fine, as thin and delicate as an onion’s skin.  His mother had taught him to read from those pages, Poe on her lap with her arms around him and her small hands holding the book open in front of him.

 _She loved this book, and she loved the Lord,_ Poe thought, _and they killed her anyway.  What does it matter then if I’m good, if I deny what I am and how I feel?_ Then he sighed.  _Because it isn’t about being good—because we’re not saved by works, and we’re not damned by them.  Even the most sinful is saved if he believes, but if he believes, he’ll want to please God. . . and I have to know.  Can God ever be pleased with me if I love another man?_

He began with Sodom: the two angels granted shelter by Lot, and the men young and old who said, “Bring them out unto us, that we may know them.”  Poe knew about that already, just as he knew Lot had offered the predatory men his two virgin daughters instead.  Poe never had really understood how that made Lot a godly man, and he didn’t understand it any better now, rereading the story in light of Kylo’s interpretation.  But Lot did say, “Only unto these men do nothing, for therefore are they come under the shadow of my roof.”

 _He wanted to protect and honor them as his guests,_ Poe thought.  _Kylo was right about that.  And the men of the city certainly didn’t want the strangers out of love._   He frowned and decided to move on to the others Kylo had spoken of, the men who _did_ love one another.  Poe was familiar with them too, and he knew that the Bible did speak of love between them—but could it possibly be the same sort of love he already felt for Kylo Ren?

In the books of Samuel, Poe read, “The soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him, as his own soul. . . .  Then Jonathan and David made a covenant: for he loved him as his own soul.”  As Kylo had said, they wept and kissed when they were parted, and when the Philistines slew Jonathan, David mourned him by saying, “Thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women.”

 _Soulmates,_ Poe thought as his face grew warmer imagining sharing such a thing with Kylo.  _For he loved him as his own soul. . . ._

The other passages weren’t as captivating.  Of Daniel and Ashpenaz, the Scripture said only, “Now God had brought Daniel into favor, and tender love with the chief of the Eunuchs.”  Poe liked the fact that God specifically caused Ashpenaz to love Daniel, but even “tender love” couldn’t compare to “loving him as his own soul.”  As for the centurion who asked Jesus Christ to heal his servant, the account in Matthew didn’t mention love between the man and the slave at all; Luke only wrote that the servant was “dear to him.”  True, Christ healed the servant without hesitation, but the focus of the incident was on the centurion’s faith, not his relationship with his servant.

Poe ended up returning to David and Jonathan, reading their story—unhappy ending and all—again before he finally put the Bible aside and blew out his candle.

 _I want a love like that,_ Poe thought as he let his eyes drop closed.  _For him to love me as his own soul. . . ._   Kylo was right, God had not condemned that love; in fact, David had been one of His most favored servants.  _Even though David did some terrible things,_ Poe remembered, _the Lord was still pleased with him_.  The shepherd-become-king had loved women too, but the love between him and Jonathan had surpassed that.

 _And I don’t think I could ever love anyone else,_ Poe realized.  _I don’t know how I can possibly already love him only days after we met. . . but I do.  I love Kylo. . . Ben._   His research had diminished his guilt, at least somewhat, and Poe was able to fall asleep again with the love he already felt foremost in his mind.

\--

A mile away, Kylo hunched trembling over the hammered metal bowl, staring down into the rippling water.  He had awoken from a fitful sleep with the anxious feeling that Poe was suffering, and he’d gotten up to check on Poe via scrying.

When Poe’s image appeared in the still water of the bowl, Kylo had started forward in a panic; his beloved’s face was contorted in what looked like pain, eyes closed tight and lips parted in a grimace to reveal clenched teeth.  Poe’s lips moved, and although Kylo couldn’t hear him, it looked as if they were forming Kylo’s name.

“Poe,” he whispered in consternation, certain that the hunter was calling out for his help, but then Kylo finally looked away from Poe’s face to the rest of the vision: Poe’s body exposed to the waist, and his hand wrapped around his erection as he stroked and pumped it.  Kylo froze, staring and unable to process what he was seeing.  Poe spoke again, not two syllables but one.

 _“Ben,”_ thought Kylo in a daze.  _He’s saying “Ben,” not “Kylo.”_

And then: _Ben, I love you._

Kylo’s eyes widened, and he shook himself out of his near trance.  He dashed his hand into the bowl and broke apart the image of Poe pleasuring himself.  Guilt for spying on Poe, even inadvertently, suffused him, but at the same time, the image of Poe consumed in the torture of ecstasy was burned into Kylo’s brain.  Consumed, and crying out for Ben—crying out the name Poe had called him in their dreams, and saying he loved him.

Kylo had come fully erect in the brief time he’d watched Poe, and now he shoved his own hand under his shirt to jerk himself roughly, still staring into the disturbed water in his scrying bowl.  He came within seconds, silently except for his intense breaths that first sped up, then slowed when he’d finished.  As he wiped his hand and stomach with his shirt, he wondered, _Was he lying when he said he didn’t remember our dreams?  Or has he only now come to remember a little, enough to call me “Ben”. . . enough to say he loves me?_   He wanted to go to Poe right then and there to demand the answers, but to do so would be to admit what he had seen.  Poe would be embarrassed and angry. . . and what if Kylo was wrong?  What if Poe hadn’t said _his_ name at all but some other?  Kylo had no way to be sure.

Finally, he got to his feet and emptied the bowl, then went back to his bed.  The cat lay curled in one corner at the foot, and when Kylo lay down too, he automatically shifted his legs to one side so as not to disturb it.  Nevertheless, it raised its head and looked at him, but he ignored it as he blew out his candle and tried to sleep.

\--

To be continued


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning, Poe rode to Kylo’s cottage with Mistress Organa in her buggy; in fact, the mistress drove the buggy herself, despite Poe’s offer to do so.  Her manservant, fussy older gentleman with the odd name of Threepio, made a fervent plea that she let him come along to do the driving, but she refused.

“I’m a far better driver than Threepio is,” Mistress Organa confided in Poe as they bumped along the narrow dirt path leading to her son’s home, “and he knows it.  I believe he’s actually concerned that Ben will fly into one of his rages at the testing.”

“His. . . rages?” Poe murmured.  “Does Threepio want to—to protect you?”

“Threepio,” said the mistress with a bit of a wry smile, “wants to see the show he thinks Ben will put on.  And yes, perhaps he thinks he could assist me—not that Ben would do anything to hurt me, or anyone else, unless we crossed the path of whatever objects he decided to throw.  But Threepio and Ben never have gotten along well, and I believe his presence would only make the situation more awkward.”

Poe leaned out the side of the buggy to look back at the carriage following them, driven by the minister who was accompanied by the other two elders.  He suspected that _their_ presence was what would make the situation awkward, but he was also concerned by Mistress Organa’s offhand comment about her son’s “rages.”

“Um,” Poe began when he settled back into his seat, “does Ben get angry often?  He was very calm yesterday.”

“Was he,” mused Mistress Organa.  She cast a sideways look at Poe that was so knowing, it made him uncomfortable.  _It’s as if she can see exactly how I feel about him,_ Poe thought, swallowing and looking aside, out at the barren fields they were passing.

“But to answer your question,” the mistress continued, “yes, Ben has always had a bad temper, and when he returned here last autumn, it had become far worse than when he was younger.  When things don’t go his way, he flies into a fury, and although he has never injured a _person_ to my knowledge, he’s terribly destructive when he’s angry.”  Mistress Organa sighed, “I think his anger is directed at himself as much as it is toward any other person, even toward his father or myself.  Ben takes his own shortcomings very hard.”

“Yes,” Poe murmured, remembering how Kylo had driven him out after Poe’s thoughtless but innocuous comment about his skin.  “The first day I went to his home, the day before yesterday. . . he did get angry at something I said.  I didn’t mean it to be hurtful, but he thought I was criticizing him, and he shouted at me.  But yesterday, overall, he was very kind, and he apologized for his behavior.”

“That’s quite unusual,” Mistress Organa observed, her smile returning.  “He must be very fond of you.”  That was embarrassing enough, but then she asked, “And are you fond of him?”  Even with the cold wind of their passage blowing on him, Poe felt his face flare with heat.

“I. . . .”  He looked down at his lap, covered by a blanket beneath which he clutched Kylo’s gloves.  “Yes, I am fond of him.  I’ll be sorry when—when the tests are finished and I must return home.  I suppose that will be tomorrow.”  Poe swallowed, and it hurt his throat.

“You don’t have to leave, Poe,” Mistress Organa said.  Her tone was brisk, not at all sentimental, but when Poe risked a glance at her, she was looking at him with sympathy.  “You are welcome to stay in the inn here for as long as you desire—Maz Kanata and her husband are good friends of our family, and from what I’ve heard, you’re the most considerate guest she’s had in an age.”

“I couldn’t keep impinging on your hospitality,” Poe protested, “not if you’re having to pay for my room and board.”

“In that case, come stay at our home,” countered the mistress.  “We have plenty of room.  In fact, I’m hoping to persuade Ben to ride back with us and spend the night.  I thought that perhaps your influence could convince him to reconcile with us. . . or at least with myself.  Making amends between Ben and his father may be a lost cause.”

That last comment intrigued Poe, but he was too overwhelmed and embarrassed with everything else she’d said to focus on it.

“I-I can’t, I couldn’t,” he stammered.  “I have no way to contribute to your household, and, and staying with Ben—I mean, I wouldn’t be staying _with_ Ben, but under the same roof—I hardly know him.  I don’t think I would be enough to persuade him to come.”  Poe’s face got all the hotter when he realized the double meaning of that last phrase, and he tried to reassure himself that a civilized lady wouldn’t pick up on it.

“I think you know him very well,” was all Mistress Organa had time to respond before they drew near to Ben’s small cottage.  She went on, “Well, here we are.  I’ll wish you luck, Poe, although I believe that if anyone can convince these men that Ben is innocent, that person will be you.”

“I hope so,” Poe murmured.

He scrambled down out of the buggy then helped Mistress Organa down as well.  They waited at the door to the cottage as the town elders disembarked from their carriage.  As the three men approached, Poe impulsively tucked Kylo’s gloves into his coat pocket; if the elders knew that Kylo had lent the gloves to Poe, they might think the hunter had been bribed.  When the others had joined them, Mistress Organa looked up at Poe and nodded slightly; then Poe knocked on the stout wooden door of the cottage.  Poe’s heart beat faster when he heard the latch opening on the inside of the door, and a moment later, the door swung open.

Kylo’s eyes fell on Poe first.  He gave Poe a curious look, one almost ashamed, but then his pale lips twitched upward in a slight smile.  Poe beamed up at him, and Kylo gave him a full smile.

“Good morning, Ben,” Mistress Organa said, rather pointedly.  Kylo started and his high cheekbones colored; then he nodded curtly at his mother before turning away and holding the door open for the visitors.  Poe allowed Mistress Organa to go in first, then followed with the elders.  The three older men stood near the fireplace while Kylo faced them with his arms folded across his chest.  The cat was nowhere in sight.

“Well?” Kylo muttered as he arched a black eyebrow at the other men.  Poe cleared his throat, already nervous about the elders’ stern expressions and Kylo’s attitude.

“I think we’re all ready to begin,” Poe murmured.  “I believe we should start with—”

“We wish to see your examination of the accused’s body first,” the oldest and sternest of the three, a man named Master Dooku who was among the wealthiest planters in the community, interrupted Poe.  Although his hair and beard were white, his heavy eyebrows were the color of steel, and they lowered over his glaring eyes as he stared not at Poe, but at Kylo.  Poe flushed at the very thought of “examining the accused’s body” because it brought back vivid memories of his dream the night before.  Not only that, but the demand had thrown off Poe’s plans, as he had hoped to begin with an inspection of the cabin so that Kylo would have time to relax before the elders scrutinized his person.

Poe gave Kylo a nervous look, but Kylo’s piercing eyes were fixed on his accuser.

“Fine,” he scoffed.  “And how much of my body do you wish for Master Dameron to examine?”

“Ben, please,” Mistress Organa sighed.

“We’ll leave that to Master Dameron, at least to begin with,” Dooku returned without raising his voice.  Poe swallowed hard and went over to stand beside one of Kylo’s two chairs.

“Please sit, Master—”  He broke off, wanting to respect Kylo’s preferred name but also leery of using what the townspeople called his “witch name” in front of the elders.  “Master Organa,” Poe finally said with some reluctance.  Kylo did not appear to be offended though, at least not by Poe.  He stalked over to the chair and sat down; then he stripped off his shirt with no hesitation or sign of shame.  Yet Poe saw that color again stood out on his cheeks, more pronounced than before.

Poe moved behind Kylo’s chair and looked down at his broad, white shoulders and the marks scattered over them.  When he laid his fingertips against one spot, Dooku intervened.

“The usual procedure is to test the suspected witch’s sensitivity to pain, is it not, Master Dameron?”

This time Poe was the one who scowled at the elder as he muttered, “As you wish.  However, I dislike causing unnecessary discomfort.”  He took from his pocket the small leather case in which he carried a few needles—although he generally used them to mend his clothing more often than to test supposed witches.

“I’m sure that, if Master Organa is innocent, he will not mind a little pain to clear his name,” Dooku replied.

Poe selected the thinnest, sharpest needle he had and bent over Kylo’s back to murmur, “I’m sorry,” before he pricked the spot on the larger man’s shoulder, as lightly as he could.  Kylo flinched, almost imperceptibly, and drew in a hiss of breath.

“Good,” said Dooku, and Poe thought resentfully that he was probably pleased not that Kylo was sensitive to touch but that he had been hurt.

Poe tried three more spots on Kylo’s back.  Mistress Organa and the minister looked increasingly distressed (or angry, in Mistress Organa’s case), and the second elder only seemed a bit bored.  Dooku watched the proceedings with an imperious expression.

“Are you satisfied?” Poe finally challenged him, but the older man gestured him forward with a hand.

“To the front now.”

Poe stifled a sigh of frustration and moved around to face Kylo.  The accused witch averted his eyes, although Poe tried to catch his gaze, and Poe wondered if Kylo were angry at him for not protesting the elder’s demands.

_Like I have a choice,_ Poe sulked.  _If Dooku isn’t satisfied, Kylo won’t be safe._ He found a spot on Kylo’s chest and pricked it with more force than he intended, and the larger man made a short “mmn” noise between his teeth as he winced.  Poe immediately felt guilty for his irritation and apologized again.

“Stop saying you’re sorry,” Kylo growled _sotto voce_.  “I told you about that.”  Only then did he meet Poe’s eyes, and despite his tone, his dark gaze was pleading, not angry.  Poe wished he could smile at the other man to reassure him, but he was afraid that Dooku might perceive such an action as collusion. . . which, Poe supposed, it was.

Poe stuck one other spot on Kylo’s chest with his needle, then stepped back and looked at the elders.

“That should be satisfactory,” he told them.  “He is clearly sensitive to pain, and I see no need to subject him to further discomfort.”

“His face,” said Dooku.  He took a step toward them, and Poe resisted the urge to move away.  Dooku lifted a hand and pointed one long finger at the spot just to the left of Kylo’s noise.  “That one.”

Poe knew that to be pricked there would be painful, and he was now certain that Dooku was deliberately trying to hurt Kylo.

“This will be the last one,” Poe insisted.  Dooku regarded him for a moment—rather suspiciously, Poe thought—but then nodded.

“All right,” he agreed.

Poe cupped his left hand under Kylo’s jaw and tilted his head up, then rested the heel of his right hand against Kylo’s cheek with the needle pinched between his thumb and first finger.  Kylo’s eyes met Poe’s once more, and Poe decided he could get lost in that dark gaze, which seemed to be saying that Kylo trusted Poe, that he had put all his faith and his innocence quite literally in the witch hunter’s hands.  Poe wanted to caress the face he cradled, not stick a needle into it, but he steeled himself and pressed the sharp point of the needle against Kylo’s skin.

“Nngh,” Kylo grunted.  He did not flinch, but his eyes watered, and when Poe drew back his hand, a bead of bright red blood welled up from where the needle had pierced the other man’s flesh.  Kylo reached up to touch the tiny wound, but Poe stopped his hand.

“No, it’s bleeding,” he muttered.  He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to the spot instead.  Kylo blinked back the water in his eyes and glared in Dooku’s direction.

“Are you satisfied?” he grumbled.

Before Dooku could respond, Poe said, “That’s enough, regardless.”  He checked to be sure Kylo’s bleeding had stopped then bent to pick up the discarded shirt, which he handed to Kylo.  As Kylo dressed, Poe said to the elders, “I have already conducted a prayer test, which Master Organa passed admirably.”

The minister’s demeanor brightened, and he nodded as he said, “Yes, let’s hear him recite.”  He gave Kylo what was almost a kindly smile, although the younger man refused to return it.   Poe wondered which passages of Scripture Kylo would choose to repeat—surely not Solomon’s Song again, or at least Poe hoped not.  To Poe’s relief, Kylo recited the Lord’s Prayer instead, as flawlessly as he had the previous day.  Dooku, however, did not appear impressed.

“Another passage,” was all he said.  Poe saw a hint of anger pass over Kylo’s face, but then it cleared and he drew his tongue over his lips before beginning the twenty-third Psalm.

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.  He maketh me to rest in green pasture, and leadeth me by the still waters.  He restoreth my soul, and leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His Name’s sake.”  Kylo paused, and for a horrible instant, Poe thought he’d forgotten the verses.  But instead, Kylo turned his eyes to Poe and met the hunter’s gaze as he continued.

“Yea, though I should walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.”  Poe felt his face warm, even as he scolded himself for the sacrilege of imagining Kylo was speaking to him and not to the Lord.  Kylo murmured, “Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.  Thou dost prepare a table before me in the sight of mine adversaries.  Thou dost anoint mine head with oil, and my cup runneth over.  Doubtless kindness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall remain a long season in the house of the Lord.”

“Very good,” said the minister, breaking the near-trance Poe had fallen into, listening to Kylo’s deep voice speak those words of love—a very different sort of love than that of Solomon, but love all the same.  Poe finally dragged his eyes away from Kylo’s to look at Dooku.  The older man’s face remained stern, but he did not demand that Kylo recite further Scripture.

“Master Organa has given us permission to examine his home for any artifacts of witchcraft,” Poe told the elders when Dooku did not speak.  “That is my final test.”

“As you see fit, Master Dameron,” muttered Dooku.  The other two men began to wander about the room rather aimlessly, but Dooku cast a glance around before stalking back to Kylo’s bedroom.  As he entered, Poe heard a hiss, and a second later, Kylo’s cat slunk out and went to sit hunched in a corner of the main room.  Thinking of the hidden compartment in the bedroom wall where Kylo had placed his mysterious books, Poe swallowed hard.

He looked up at Kylo and found the accused witch’s dark eyes fixed back on him.  Poe swallowed again, wanting to speak to him but not knowing what to say.

Finally, Poe moved close enough to murmur, “Are you still hurting from my needle?  I’m—well, I know you forbad me to say it, but I’m sorry nevertheless.”  Kylo’s tensed mouth relaxed into a helpless and affectionate smile.

“Poe, you were as gentle as you could be,” he whispered back.  “It’s all right, I am not hurting.”  He lifted his eyes to look over Poe’s head, back toward the bedroom, and his smile faded.  Poe looked over his shoulder and saw Dooku through the open doorway; the old man was standing in the middle of the small room—not looking at anything, just standing there.

“What’s he doing?” Poe whispered as he turned back to Kylo.

“Searching for signs of witchcraft,” said Kylo.  Poe scowled at the flippant response, but when Kylo met his gaze again, his expression was serious.

“I see nothing here to be concerned about,” the minister was saying.  Poe joined him and the other elder where they were waiting with Mistress Organa by the fireplace.

“Will the evidence you’ve seen today be enough to satisfy you that Master Organa is no witch?” Poe asked them.

“We will have to discuss it before we can give you an answer,” replied the minister.  “As soon as Master Dooku finishes his examination, we will do so.  But speaking personally, Master Dameron, I should commend you for your work on the Lord’s behalf, and thank you for coming here.  We appreciate your dedication.”

“It is my honor,” said Poe, “and my calling.”  Before he could say more, Dooku returned from the other room, apparently without finding anything.  He gave a curt nod to the other two elders then cocked his head toward the outer door to the cottage.

“Please excuse us for a few moments,” the minister said to Poe.  He inclined his head toward Mistress Organa then followed the others outside.

“Now we wait,” Mistress Organa muttered, “while they decide if they’ve tormented my son enough.”

“Mother, please,” grumbled Kylo.  She glared at him, but he continued, “If you hadn’t brought Dooku here, there would be no question that they’d decide I’m innocent.”

For all Mistress Organa had said about her son’s temper, she had one herself.  She snapped back at him, “You know perfectly well that he had to be consulted!  Without his approval, the verdict wouldn’t stand.”  She gave Poe a slightly apologetic look and explained, “Master Dooku is the founder of this settlement, and one of our most influential religious figures.  Almost everyone looks to him for leadership, so if he says that Ben is innocent, the others will believe it. . . or at least, they’ll pretend to,” she admitted with a little sigh.  “I’m not so naïve as to think these tests will be enough to make the community accept Ben, but at least I won’t have to worry about them attacking him and trying to drag him to the stake.”

“As if they could,” Kylo muttered.

“I _said_ ‘trying,’” his mother retorted.  “But I don’t want you fighting them, regardless, because you’d likely flatten our town in the process.”

“ _Your_ town.  I want nothing to do with it,” Kylo growled at his mother.  Poe wondered why Kylo had come back after his long absence, or at least why he had remained for an entire year, if he hated the settlement so much; however, the hunter didn’t want to become further involved in the others’ argument by asking.  Instead, he withdrew to the corner of the room where the cat huddled and crouched down beside it.  When Poe stretched out his hand toward the animal, the cat looked up at his fingers with a skeptical expression.

“Kitty kitty?” Poe cooed at it, and the cat flicked its disdainful eyes up to meet Poe’s gaze.  Poe’s fingers drooped—leave it to a cat to embarrass him—but then the animal leaned forward and placed its head under his hand.  Poe smirked and muttered, “So you’ll deign to be petted, eh?” but scratched the back of the cat’s neck all the same.

When Poe glanced up, he saw that Kylo had come to stand close by and was watching him.  Embarrassed all over again, Poe got to his feet and brushed the cat hairs off his hand.

“How are your hands today?” Kylo asked in a soft voice.  His expression remained grim, but his eyes were soft as they looked down into Poe’s.

“Better,” Poe murmured, even as he self-consciously folded his hands together in front of him.  “Your mother lent me some gloves as you asked, and I used your lotion last night.”  That reminded Poe of just _how_ he had used the lotion, and he felt himself blush.  _Oh please don’t let him notice,_ Poe thought.

Whether he noticed or not, Kylo looked rather embarrassed himself as he said, “That’s good.  I’m glad I could help you.”

“Oh!  That reminds me, I need to return these.”  Poe went to the second chair, where he’d draped his coat, and drew Kylo’s gloves out of his pocket.  He returned to the larger man and held the gloves out to him.  “Thank you for them, very much.  They kept me warm.”

“I’m glad,” Kylo said again, his deep voice hardly above a whisper.  He reached out, but instead of taking the gloves from Poe, he covered both of Poe’s hands in his own.  Poe’s blush grew all the hotter, yet he had no desire to pull his hands from Kylo’s grasp.  His touch made Poe feel warm all over, as did his voice when Kylo went on, “I would do whatever it took to take care of you, Poe.”

Poe had forgotten everything else for the moment that they touched, from the men outside discussing Kylo’s future to Mistress Organa who was surely watching her son clasping another man’s hands.  But when Poe heard the creak of the front door being opened, it all came back to him, and he stepped away from Kylo so quickly, he stumbled.  Poe doubted it would help Kylo’s case for the influential Master Dooku to see him consorting with the supposedly unbiased witch hunter.

“We have reached our decision,” Dooku announced before the other two elders had even followed him all the way into the room.  “Master Dameron, thanks to your thorough testing, you have convinced us that Master Organa is innocent of the charges and suspicions held against him.”

Poe nodded, albeit weakly.  Only now did he realize that he had never been certain of that outcome—not that he believed Kylo’s claims of being a witch, or that he lacked faith in his own tests.  But Dooku had unnerved him, and Poe had subconsciously doubted that his tests would be enough to satisfy the older man.  Apparently, however, they had.

When Kylo said nothing, Mistress Organa replied, “Thank you, masters,” to the three men.  Her tone held a note of irony none of them could have missed.  Kylo just glared at them.  Dooku returned the look with a sort of haughty disdain then turned to nod to Kylo’s mother before he vacated the room once more.  The second elder followed, but the minister stayed behind a moment, his attitude far more relaxed than during the formal testing.

“Ben, will you continue to come to meeting now that this matter is behind us?” he asked.  “I was very pleased to see you this past Sabbath.”

Poe looked at Kylo and couldn’t hide a smile at the stricken, hunted look that passed over the other man’s pale face.

“That. . . was a special occasion,” Kylo muttered.

Mistress Organa put in, “You should consider it, though, Ben.  It might do you some good.”  Kylo’s hunted look became a glower which he turned on her, until Poe intervened, still smiling.

“I agree,” he said.  “I think it would be good for you.”  Kylo gave an audible groan and shifted his whole body to face Poe.  Poe just smiled up at him and added, “At least consider it?”

“All right, I’ll consider it,” Kylo sighed; then his glower faded, and he smiled too.  Poe’s heart soared.

“I’ll hope to see you there, then,” the minister said, oblivious to the way the other two men were looking at one another.  “Good day, Mistress Organa.”

When he had gone and they could hear the sound of the horses pulling the elders’ carriage away, Mistress Organa came to stand beside Poe.

“Ben, we have to get back to town too,” she said, “but I was hoping you’d come back with us.”  Kylo looked from Poe to his mother and scowled.

“Why?”

Clearly trying to suppress the irritation in her voice, Mistress Organa replied, “Because I haven’t seen you for any length of time since you returned here a year ago, and your father hasn’t seen you at all.”

“He doesn’t _want_ to see me, I’m sure,” Kylo growled, “nor do I want to see him.  And what is there for you and I to discuss?”

His mother raised an eyebrow.  “Much, if you really believed that I sent for Poe to have you condemned as a witch.”  Then she sighed and went on, “But I won’t make you talk to us if you do not want to.  I just want to see you at home again.  Poe says he must leave tomorrow, but I’ve asked him to stay with us tonight—you can talk to him instead of to me, but please come.”

When she spoke of Poe leaving, Kylo’s eyes flicked to the other man’s face with a pained look that made Poe’s formerly soaring heart clench.  He thought Kylo might agree to come with them then, but Kylo only looked away after a second.

“You know the full moon is tomorrow night,” Kylo muttered.  “I need to be here.”

“Then you can spend tonight with us and come back in the morning,” Mistress Organa retorted.  Poe wondered what the full moon had to do with anything—surely Kylo wasn’t going to start claiming to be a werewolf too—but he didn’t want to ask.  And anyhow, at the sound of frustration in his mother’s voice, Kylo’s scowl had returned.

“If you have such urgent business in town, you had better go,” he said to her, then turned away to busy himself straightening the few dishes he kept on the shelf hanging on his wall.  Mistress Organa made an exasperated sound before composing herself and going to the door.  Poe cast one last look at Kylo, but the other man refused to look at either of them, and Poe finally pulled on his coat and followed the mistress.

“If you change your mind, Ben, do come by,” Mistress Organa murmured.  When she got no response, she unlatched the door and went out with Poe close behind.

_I’ll never see him again,_ Poe thought in misery as he trudged after the mistress, back to her buggy.  _Tomorrow I’ll go home and write my report, and then I’ll be summoned or sent somewhere else, and somewhere else after that, and I’ll never come back here, and I’ll never see him again._  The thought made him feel like weeping, and he stopped short at the buggy’s side.

Mistress Organa had climbed up already and taken the reins, but she paused and looked down at Poe curiously.

“Poe?”

“I’ll—I’ll go ask one more time,” he mumbled, his head down, too ashamed of his weakness to meet her eyes.  “Maybe you’re right and I can convince him.”  He turned away, hopefully before she noticed he was blushing again, and stalked back to the cottage.  He knew Mistress Organa was watching him, but his need to be with Kylo was greater than his embarrassment.  Poe stopped before the stout door and took a deep breath before knocking.

He called softly, “Kylo?  It’s me, Poe.”  This time, the door opened right away, as if Kylo had been just on the other side of it, and the taller man stood in the doorway looking down at the hunter.

“Poe,” he whispered.

“Can I—” Poe began, then broke off with an “Oh!” when Kylo grasped his hand and tugged him inside, shutting the door behind him.  As soon as they were shielded from the sight of Kylo’s mother, he pulled Poe into his arms and held the smaller man to his chest.  Poe went willingly and embraced Kylo against him.

“I’m so glad the tests are done,” Poe mumbled into Kylo’s rough shirt.  “You’re safe now, they’ll leave you alone.”

“Because of you,” Kylo whispered back.

“Please come back with us,” Poe blurted out.  He tilted his head back to gaze up into Kylo’s apprehensive dark eyes.  “ _Please_.  My work here is finished now, and tomorrow I’ll have to leave—”

“Poe, you don’t have to leave,” Kylo said.  He lifted a hand to Poe’s face and stroked the hunter’s cheek with his thumb.  “You could stay here. . . with me.”

“Kylo,” Poe gasped, hardly able to get the name out.  It was very much like what Mistress Organa had proposed, and still too much for Poe to contemplate at the moment.  He stammered, “I, I can’t—I can’t just _quit_.  They’ll come looking for me, my superiors, I mean. . . and even if they didn’t, God has called me to this life.  There are others who need me to save them, just as you did.”

Kylo’s hopeful expression fell, and he sighed so deeply, Poe felt guilty for hurting him; but then he said, “Then I’ll come back to town with you, if you promise I can spend today with you.”  He paused, and his mouth quirked in a near-smile.  “And _without_ my parents, at least for part of the time.  I want to be alone with you.”

Poe found himself smiling outright, even as his cheeks grew warm.  “A-all right.  I can promise that.”  Kylo’s hand contracted over his jaw, and Poe tilted his head into the other man’s warm touch; then his eyes fell on the tiny wound beside Kylo’s nose.  A small, blue-black bruise had formed under the pinprick of dried blood.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Poe whispered.  He reached up to touch the spot with the tip of one finger.  “But you’ve bruised here.”

“It doesn’t matter, it will heal,” Kylo assured him, but Poe shook his head.

“It _does_ matter.  I had to hurt you to ‘prove’ your innocence—all because of a bunch of foolish, superstitious bullshit.”

Kylo stared at him, then began to laugh, hard.  Poe stared back, affronted, until the other man shook his own head, sending locks of his black hair dancing around his face.

“Master Dameron, your language is appalling,” Kylo snickered.

“Oh.”  Poe bit his lip in guilt.  “I’m—”

“And don’t you dare say you’re sorry!”  Kylo grinned down at him, and Poe relaxed into an abashed smile.  _He looks so happy,_ Poe thought in wonder.   _Do I really inspire such joy in him?_   Kylo continued, “I like hearing you swear.  Witnessing you sinning convinces me that you’re really human after all, and not some. . . some perfect angel sent to tempt me.”  His voice had fallen to a thickened murmur that sent a thrill up Poe’s spine—a thrill that felt suspiciously like a shudder when Poe remembered how he had thought exactly the same, that God had sent Kylo to him as a temptation.

“I _want_ to make you swear,” Kylo murmured.  His almost-black eyes fixed on Poe’s, and his hand on Poe’s face felt hot as steel held over a flame.  “I want to make you scream curses, curses and my name, with the pleasure I give you.  Poe, if you’ll only let me try, I can—”

“Shhh!” Poe interrupted, unable to bear hearing anymore.  He lowered his head as a true shudder worked through his body, ending in his groin where he felt himself begin to stiffen at the mere suggestion of what Kylo wanted to do to him.

_Lord, please, give me the strength to bear this,_ Poe prayed.  _If this **is** a test, forgive me for my weakness, and **help** me._

Kylo had fallen silent at Poe’s request, but he didn’t free the smaller man from his grasp.  When Poe had composed himself, he lifted his head and looked again at the bruise on Kylo’s face.

“Before we go, you should put some medicine on that,” he said in a voice he fought to keep steady.  “I’m sure you have some concoction that would promote healing.”  He shifted his eyes to meet Kylo’s, and the sadness he saw in them made his heart ache.  Poe wanted to kiss every bit of that sadness away, to suck it right out of Kylo’s beautiful mouth, but he contented himself with rising on his toes to touch his lips to the bruised wound instead.

As Poe sank back down on his heels, Kylo murmured, “Your kiss heals me far better than any medicine ever could, my heart.”  He held Poe fast and bent to press his own mouth to the smaller man’s forehead; then mercifully, he let Poe go and turned away.  Poe’s pulse beat through his body with a force that nearly made him dizzy, but when Kylo spoke again, his voice sounded normal and unemotional.

“Please give me a moment, then I’ll be ready to go.”

As Kylo went to the fireplace and began to bank the fire, Poe said, “Yes, of course.”  He watched the other man finish with the fire, extinguish a lantern he had burning, then crouch down beside the cat, which still huddled in the corner.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, I promise,” Kylo told it.  The cat looked at him, and Kylo frowned.  “Will you be all right?”  Poe half expected the cat to reply—and to say “No, servant, you must stay here and tend to me,” judging from its look of feline superiority—but it only blinked, then meowed.

Kylo got back to his feet and dipped some water from his cistern into a small dish, then set it down on the floor for the animal.  When he turned back to Poe, the hunter felt a little guilty in spite of himself.

“Um, do you need to leave it some food?” he asked with a glance down at the cat.

A smile flickered over Kylo’s face.  “No, he doesn’t eat much—and he caught a huge rat just this morning.  I don’t know how he tolerates eating those things.”  He looked down at the cat too, who turned and stared at the wall as if embarrassed.  Kylo went on, “At the first, he wouldn’t touch anything save for human food, but now. . . .”

“I think you’re shaming him,” Poe chuckled.  “And I really don’t want to know more about the rat.  If he’ll really be all right on his own, let’s go.”

“He’ll be fine,” Kylo said.  He nodded at the cat then put on his coat and went to the door, holding it open for Poe.

If Mistress Organa was surprised to see them coming together to the buggy, she didn’t show it.  Poe waited for Kylo to get in, but the other man gestured for Poe to climb up first.  That left Poe wedged on the single seat between Kylo and his mother, feeling more than a little awkward.  Mistress Organa glanced at Kylo, then at Poe, and he detected just a hint of a triumphant sparkle in her eye.  Poe ducked his head in embarrassment and busied himself with pulling his borrowed gloves on.  But then, when he rested his right hand between himself and Kylo, he felt Kylo’s larger gloved hand close over it.  Poe still couldn’t bring himself to look up, but he gripped the other man’s fingers tightly in his own as they drove back to the town.

\--

To be continued


	9. Chapter 9

Kylo’s mother stopped the buggy in front of the inn to let Poe out, insisting that he retrieve his belongings and come to stay at her home instead.  Kylo climbed down so that Poe could disembark, but then he stayed on the ground and looked back up at his mother.

“I’m going with Poe to help carry his things,” Kylo muttered.  The knowing little smirk Leia gave him irritated him, but he would rather brave that than be alone with her until Poe made it to her house.  And besides, he welcomed any chance to spend time with Poe.  When he turned to Poe and saw a smile on the hunter’s handsome face, Kylo dared to hope that Poe felt the same way.

“In that case,” Leia told her son, “you can give Maz a message for me.  If she sees your father today, I’d like her to tell him to be home for dinner— _and_ to stay in this evening.”

“Why?” growled Kylo, even though he already knew.

Sure enough, his mother snapped, “You _know_ why—I want you to see him.”

“And I _don’t_ want to see him.”  Kylo left the buggy and stalked over to the door of the inn, where he waited for Poe without looking back at Leia.  Poe spoke to her a moment more, then finally joined Kylo.  Kylo followed the smaller man into the inn’s common room, where, to his dismay, Maz Kanata was sweeping up.  Kylo tried to sneak to the staircase without her noticing him, but she spotted him right away.

“I haven’t seen you around in quite a while. . . Kylo,” she said.  Unlike Kylo’s mother, Maz used the new name he had taken; yet the way she said it conveyed how ridiculous she found it to be.  Kylo scowled down at her, and she looked right back up at him over the tops of her glasses.

“I’ve already heard the news,” Maz went on, “so I’ll congratulate you on passing the witch trials.”

“You’ve already heard?” Poe asked in surprise; at the same time, Kylo grumbled, “You don’t have anything to congratulate me for.  The trials mean nothing, and you know it.”

Maz looked at him another moment, then chose to address Poe instead.

“Yes, I’ve already heard,” she told him with a growing smile.  “Dear boy, if you stick around, you’ll learn two things: word travels fast here, and it usually travels to me first.”

Poe answered her smile faintly but said, “I’m afraid I _won’t_ be sticking around.  Now that I’ve conducted my tests to the satisfaction of the elders, I’ll be returning to the Hunters’ Council tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Master Dameron.  I’m sure we’ll all miss you,” said Maz.  Kylo looked away before she could give him the significant glance he knew was coming.  _Did Mother talk to her about Poe, and about me?_ Kylo wondered.  _How much does either of them know?_

“Your room’s upstairs?” Kylo asked Poe, as pointedly as he could manage.

“Yes,” Poe replied, “I—”

“Now wait just a minute,” Maz interrupted.  The tiny woman was fairly purring with amusement.  “You both should know that I don’t tolerate any foolishness in my inn.”

“F-foolishness?” Poe stammered.  Kylo didn’t need to look at him to know that he was blushing, and Kylo himself cringed.

“Yes.  No unmarried couples allowed in a room together,” sniffed Maz.

“B-but—but—”  Poe stopped, composed himself, and protested, “But we’re not a _couple_ , we’re both _men_.  He’s only coming up to help me collect my belongings.”  As he had always done when nervous, even in Kylo’s dreams, Poe was talking too fast, and far too much.  He plunged on, “Mistress Organa very kindly invited me to spend my last night at her house—not that I haven’t enjoyed my time here in the inn, but she insisted, and I couldn’t refuse.  And Kylo’s spending the night too—not with _me_ , I mean, but his mother wanted to see him, so he offered to help me.  Get my things, I mean.”

“Right,” said Maz.  She looked at Poe, then at Kylo, then back at Poe.  “Well, if you’re _only_ getting your belongings, hurry up then.”  Then she dropped the stern act and added warmly, “Although I really will miss your smiling face around here, Master Dameron.  We have very few guests, and none so pleasant as you, not in a long while.”

“Um, thank you,” Poe mumbled.  Kylo risked a glance at him and saw that the hunter was still blushing faintly.  Poe went past Kylo to the stairs and started backing up them, keeping an eye on Maz as if he thought she might pounce on him.  “We’ll hurry.  No—no foolishness,” Poe promised before he turned and pelted up the stairs.  Kylo was about to follow him, but Maz crossed the floor with startling quickness and clamped a tiny hand down over his arm.

“Ben,” she said, the first time she had called him by his birth name since his return to the settlement.

Kylo glowered at the stairs before him and growled, “What.”  Yet his attitude was mostly for show; he respected Maz Kanata more than he would ever admit, and not only because she was wed to his father’s best friend.  While she wasn’t a witch herself, Maz possessed a great deal of knowledge and mental acuity, and Kylo sometimes wondered if there weren’t something magical about her after all.

“Take care of that boy,” Maz told him.  “Don’t let him leave.”  In spite of himself, Kylo turned to stare down at her; she was peering up at him intently.

“If Poe wants to leave, I can’t stop him,” Kylo muttered.

“He doesn’t _want_ to leave, as you well know,” she countered.  To Kylo’s horror, she reached up her free hand to grasp his chin, then studied his eyes.  Maz repeated, “He doesn’t want to leave, so give him a reason to stay.  And then take care of him, _protect_ him—he’ll need you.  Just like you’ve needed him.”

Maz let Kylo go as abruptly as she had grasped him.  She nodded in a self-satisfied manner then turned away and went back to her broom.  Kylo kept staring after her a moment, but she seemed to have finished with him, so he finally trudged upstairs to find Poe.

The inn only held three guest rooms, and the door to one stood open.  Kylo looked in and found Poe there, folding up a shirt and tucking it into a worn canvas bag resting on the bed.  He had only one other bag, a small leather satchel which lay at the foot of the bed.  When Kylo stepped into the room, the floorboards creaked under his weight, and Poe looked up.

“I thought maybe you’d changed your mind about helping me,” Poe chided, although his smile indicated he was only teasing.

“It’s hard to get away from Maz when she starts talking,” Kylo mumbled.  He watched Poe close up his bag; then the smaller man turned to the bedside table, where the jar of lotion Kylo had given him rested.

“Is it all right for me to keep this?” Poe asked in a low voice.  “The jar, I mean, I know you can make more lotion. . . .”

“Of course, Poe.”  Kylo looked at the jar—just plain greenish glass with bubbles trapped under its uneven surface—in Poe’s small brown hand.  “Please keep it.  Perhaps you’ll remember me when you see it.”

“I’m going to remember you, no matter what.”  The words came out tight and hard, and Poe’s fingers clenched around the jar.  “I couldn’t forget you even if I wanted to—and I never want to, _never_.”

Poe turned, keeping his back to Kylo, and shoved the jar into his satchel.  Kylo hung back as Poe fumbled to buckle the bag’s straps, but when he saw the hunter’s shoulders tremble, Kylo stepped forward and grasped them.  At first, Poe resisted when Kylo tried to turn him around; then finally he relented and shifted to face Kylo.  Poe’s warm brown eyes were teary.

“Poe,” Kylo whispered, “please don’t go, don’t leave me.  You can write to your superiors, send them your report, and—and if you must keep hunting witches, you can, but do it from here.  Make this town your base. . . your home.”  When Poe didn’t protest, Kylo lifted his hands to cup the hunter’s face and whispered, “Make your home with _me_.  Poe, you consume me, my every thought is of you.  I can’t bear to go back to living without you.”

“Kylo. . . .”  Poe’s eyes moved over Kylo’s face, pausing when they fell on the bruised spot beside his nose; then Poe leaned up and kissed him, this time on the mouth.

Kylo gave a “Mmph!” of surprise but adjusted quickly enough, shifting his hands to the back of Poe’s head and holding it as he opened his mouth and let Poe plunge his tongue inside.  Poe kissed him hard, pulled back with a gasp, then kissed him again.  Just when Kylo was about to put his arms around the smaller man—and possibly try to draw him down onto the bed, Maz or no Maz—Poe pulled away.  He looked up at Kylo with a desperate groan.

“Kylo, I—I don’t _know_ , I don’t know if this is right,” he breathed.  “Before I came here, before I met you—I knew I desired men and not women, but I knew. . . I always believed it would be sinful to act on those desires.  And truly, I was never really tempted to.  And then. . . and then I met you.”

Poe closed his eyes and whispered, “I don’t know what you’ve done to me, but I want you, I want to be with you.  Last night, I. . . .”  His voice trailed off, and when Kylo saw the blush that deepened the color of Poe’s cheeks, he knew that Poe was thinking of what Kylo had inadvertently witnessed through his scrying.  But then Poe continued, “Last night, I read the Scriptures you spoke of.  I read about David, and Jonathan who ‘loved him as his own soul.’  Kylo. . . can I have been so wrong, all this time?”  Poe opened his eyes suddenly, opened them wide so that his dark lashes did nothing to conceal them as they usually did.  “Do you truly believe that it isn’t a sin for me to be with you?”

“Yes.”  Kylo wanted to touch Poe again, but he didn’t trust himself to do so.  Instead, he clasped his hands in front of him as he went on, “Poe, please trust me, I would never urge you to do anything I consider to be wrong—no matter how much I desire to keep you here with me.”

Poe’s eyes searched Kylo’s face again; then he nodded.  “I believe you.  Kylo. . . please, be patient with me.  Let me spend today with you, and let me pray about it and ask for God’s guidance.  I can’t give you an answer now, but maybe. . . .”

For some reason, the beseeching look Poe gave Kylo made him recall Maz’s words: _Take care of that boy.  Don’t let him leave.  He’ll need you._

“Of course,” Kylo murmured.  “Poe, I’ve waited my whole life for you.  I’ll give you as much time as you need.”  Poe smiled at him, and the trust Kylo saw in his eyes made all the waiting worth it.

Kylo turned to pick up Poe’s bag and said, “Is this everything?  We’d better go before Maz comes up here looking for ‘foolishness.’”  He was pleased when Poe chuckled.

“I can carry that,” the hunter said as he slung his satchel over one shoulder, but Kylo shook his head.

“I told Mother I was helping you carry your belongings, so that’s what I’m going to do.”  He took Poe’s gloved hand and squeezed it, and neither of them let go until they had left the room and were almost down the staircase.  Then Poe finally dropped Kylo’s hand, but Kylo could understand; he didn’t want Maz’s commentary on their show of affection either.  He was hoping to escape without speaking to Maz again, but this time, Poe was the one who stopped him.

“Kylo?  Didn’t your mother have a message for Goody Kanata?” the hunter reminded him.  Kylo, who was already halfway to the front door, paused and looked over his shoulder at the other man.

“No,” he said firmly.  Poe blinked at him, then set his pretty mouth.

“A message for me?” Maz prompted from where she had finished sweeping and sat down near the fireplace.

“Yes,” said Poe, even as Kylo shook his head rapidly.  Poe ignored him and turned to face Maz.  “Mistress Organa asked that if you should see Master Or—er, Master Solo, please tell him to come home for dinner.  And for the evening.”

“Oh, of course,” Maz said with a smile.  “I expect he’ll be by.  I’ll tell him.”  She looked Poe over then added, “You’re a good boy, Master Dameron.  I’m sure Leia appreciates your concern.”

“Erm, you can call me Poe,” the hunter mumbled.  Kylo grumbled to himself and stalked to the door, truly angry at Poe for the first time since the hunter’s arrival.

_What business does he have interfering with my family life?  If I wanted to see my father, I would,_ Kylo fumed as he pushed the door open and started for his mother’s house without waiting for the other man to catch up.  _And of course Maz thinks he’s good, and so does Mother.  He’s **perfect**.  They probably both want to adopt him—he’d be a better son than I am, at any rate._

“Kylo!” Poe called from somewhere behind him.  “Wait, please!”

Kylo almost _didn’t_ wait, but then he stopped walking and stood still.  Poe jogged up beside him, then when Kylo didn’t look at him, moved in front of him into Kylo’s line of vision.

“Did I make you angry?” Poe asked.

Kylo didn’t answer directly; instead, he glared over Poe’s head and muttered, “You don’t need to get yourself involved in my family.”  
  
“You weren’t going to do what your mother asked,” Poe argued, “so I did.”

“It’s not your affair!” Kylo snapped.

Poe retorted, “If you want me to stay here with you, then your family _is_ my affair!”

When Kylo finally looked down, Poe’s brows were lowered over his eyes, giving him the same belligerent expression he’d had when they first met in town.  _He’s as stubborn as I am,_ Kylo thought, _but I already knew that._   Kylo’s first instinct was to respond with something hurtful that he didn’t mean, maybe to tell Poe he shouldn’t stay after all; that was exactly how Kylo would have lashed out at his parents or one of their friends.  But then he imagined telling Poe to leave, and Poe actually doing it, and Kylo losing him forever all because he couldn’t control his temper.  Something in Kylo’s face must have relaxed, showing that his resolve had wavered, because Poe’s expression softened as well.

The hunter said in a quieter voice, “I know you don’t wish to see your father, or to spend time with your mother.  But Ben, I would give years off my life to be able to spend just a few minutes more with either of my parents.”

“I’m sure your parents were nothing like mine,” muttered Kylo, but then he realized something.  “You. . . you called me Ben.”

Poe’s face colored, and he mumbled, “Oh, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to.  It’s only that your mother always uses that name for you, and I—”  He broke off and only repeated, “I didn’t mean to.”  Poe had dropped his eyes as if ashamed, and Kylo remembered what he had witnessed in his scrying the night before, how Poe had appeared to be crying out Kylo’s birthname. . . his birthname and the words, “I love you.”

“Would you prefer to call me Ben?  Do you like that name better?” Kylo whispered.  Poe’s eyes darted back up to meet his, confused and still a bit embarrassed.

“I, um. . . I think Benjamin, Ben is a lovely name,” Poe admitted.  “But I don’t wish to—to disrespect you.  You’re already angry enough at me.”

“Poe, I’m not angry with you,” sighed Kylo, and it was the truth.  As frustrated as the hunter made him feel, Kylo couldn’t stay upset with Poe.  He lifted his free hand to rest it on the smaller man’s shoulder and squeezed it.  “I—I’m sorry I lost my temper.  And you may call me whatever you’d like.  Any name for me sounds perfect spoken in your voice.”

“Oh, stop,” Poe said, but he was smiling now, and his blush deepened.  Kylo smiled too, to see it.

“In my dreams, you called me—you called me Ben.”  Kylo had started to say something different: a pet name which Poe had begun to call him when they were children and continued to use as a term of endearment throughout their years as lovers.  But at the last second, Kylo changed his mind and said “Ben” instead.

_If he ever calls me that other name, without me telling him what it is, I’ll know that he’s remembered our dreams,_ Kylo thought.  But he hadn’t lied; Poe _did_ call him Ben in their shared dreams, as well.

“In your dreams?” Poe repeated.  “Is that. . . is that what you prefer?”

Kylo realized that he did.  “Kylo Ren” truly was his witch name (though chosen by himself, not bestowed upon him by the devil as most people believed), and it felt unfitting for his beloved witch hunter to speak it.

“Yes,” he whispered.  “I want everything to be like in my dreams of you.”

“Then I’ll call you Ben,” Poe murmured.  He turned his head toward Kylo’s hand still resting on his shoulder, as if he were thinking of caressing it, but then his eyes fixed on something behind Kylo.  “Um, people are looking at us,” he stammered.

Poe took a step backward at the same time as Kylo drew back his hand.  Kylo looked over his shoulder and saw two of the younger girls who lived in the settlement staring at them, wide-eyed.  They might have only been surprised to see Kylo out in town, or they might have been admiring the handsome newcomer.  Most likely, though, they were staring at the combination of the two, and how Kylo’s hand had touched Poe’s shoulder.

Kylo gave the girls a glare they probably didn’t deserve, and both cowered, shot him terrified looks, and hurried on their way.  Poe laughed weakly.

“Don’t go scaring the townsfolk, or they might decide you’re a witch after all, test or no test,” he said.  Kylo turned back to him and looked down into Poe’s low-lidded brown eyes.

“Come, let’s go in,” Kylo told him.  “I’m sure Mother is waiting.”  He wanted to be alone with Poe, truly alone without any nosy villagers to watch them.  He knew that wasn’t likely to happen in his mother’s house, but the sooner they went in, the sooner they could get out again. . . hopefully out the back, where no one would see them.

“All right. . . Ben.”  Poe smiled again with a hint of mischief in both the sparkle of his eyes and the curve of the lips Kylo already longed to kiss once more.  Kylo decided it was indeed mischief he’d seen, when Poe drew the lower of those lips between his teeth.  His mouth left it glistening before he turned away and started for the house at the top of the hill, leaving Kylo to catch up.

\--

To be continued


	10. Chapter 10

When Poe and Ben got to Mistress Organa’s house, the manservant Threepio met them at the door.  He exclaimed and fussed over Ben, which of course Ben hated, and insisted on taking both of Poe’s bags.

“Come, Master Dameron,” the older man clucked.  “Mistress Leia said you’ll be staying with us, so I’ll show you to the guest room upstairs.”

“I’ll show him,” Ben muttered as he tried to take Poe’s larger bag back from Threepio, but his mother had appeared in the foyer, and she spoke over him.

“Ben, I need you down here,” she interrupted.  “You can entrust Poe to someone else’s care for a few moments at least.”  Ben flushed and grumbled, but Poe smiled as he followed Threepio upstairs.

The guest room was small but better furnished than the barracks where Poe lived back at the headquarters of the Hunters’ Council.  Threepio set Poe’s bags down on the floor beside the quilt-covered bed, then proceeded to show Poe the wardrobe, basin, and everything else the hunter could clearly see on his own.  Poe let him chatter in order to give Mistress Organa more time alone with her son.

_Ben probably won’t be very happy with me,_ Poe thought, _but they need to talk to each other._   He smiled again as he remembered Ben shouting that his family wasn’t Poe’s affair.  _When have I **ever** minded my own affairs?_

Still talking, Threepio was herding Poe back out of the room onto the small landing of the house’s second story.  As Poe followed, the older man gestured to the only other upstairs door, one set at a right angle to that of the guest room.

“That was Master Ben’s room,” Threepio said, “before he left home.”  He frowned at the closed door.  “Mistress Leia wouldn’t let anyone disturb a single thing in there, so it’s all just as he left it.  He never even took anything out of his room when he returned.  In fact. . . this is the first time he’s set foot in this house in over a decade.”

“I see,” Poe murmured, and he wondered just what had caused such a rift between Ben and his parents.  It had to be more than just his missing friend, or whatever the bastard boy had been to him.  That line of thought distracted Poe further: _What **were** they to each other?_   He remembered the pained, almost sickened expression on Ben’s face when Poe brought up the other boy’s disappearance, and for the first time since meeting Ben, Poe felt a twinge of jealousy.

“Master Dameron?” Threepio prompted loudly, jolting Poe out of his thoughts.

“I-I’m sorry, what?” Poe stammered.

The servant huffed, “I was asking if you knew whether Master Ben intends to spend the night here.  Mistress Leia said this morning that she would try to bring him back to town with her, but I hardly expected her to succeed!  I suppose it’s that good influence of yours that she’s always going on about.”

Poe felt his face flush as he asked, “My good influence?”

“Oh yes, ever since she wrote to you and asked you to come, it’s all she’s talked about!”  From Threepio’s expression, Poe could guess that the servant didn’t set quite so much store by his abilities.  Threepio continued, “She’s remained certain that you could set things right with him.  _I_ think it will take far more than an acquittal to make Master Ben back into a civil young man, but no one asked _my_ opinion.”

“Oh,” mumbled Poe.  He was inclined to agree that he alone would not be enough to mend Ben’s broken family—or, for that matter, to make Ben into a “civil young man”—and he pondered why Mistress Organa might think so highly of him, before they had ever met.  He told Threepio, “Well, to answer your question, I believe Ben does intend to spend the night.”

“Ah.  In that case, I suppose that if you need anything during the night, you can wake _him_ , since he’ll be right here,” Threepio declared.

“I’ll be sure to do that,” Poe chuckled.

Threepio finally led him back downstairs, where Mistress Organa’s cook was setting out the noon meal on the large table in the house’s main room, near the fireplace.  Poe wasn’t especially hungry—the big meals he’d been having at the inn had finally caught up to him—but the sight of Ben slumped in a chair at the table lured Poe over.  He sat down in the chair beside Ben’s, and when the larger man looked up, Poe smiled at him.  A small, answering smile formed on Ben’s lips.

“Do you think you’ll be comfortable enough here?” he asked softly.

“Of course,” Poe assured him.  “And Threepio showed me where your room is—next to mine.  He said that if I needed something in the night, I should wake you up.”  Ben’s cheeks reddened, but his smile grew a bit.

“You should,” he whispered.  “I’ll give you whatever you need, Poe.”  He broke off when the cook reentered with a pot of venison stew.  Poe found his appetite returning when he smelled it, and once Mistress Organa joined them, he started inhaling his meal.  Ben barely touched his own food, but when Poe glanced up, the other man was watching him fondly.

“You must like venison,” Ben observed.  “That’s fortunate, since hunting’s the only useful thing my father does.”

“Ben,” sighed Mistress Organa, “don’t start.”  Still, she admitted to Poe, “He does spend quite a bit of time out hunting with Maz’s husband.  Have you met Ben’s father yet?”

“Not really,” mumbled Poe.  “He was at the inn last night, but we didn’t speak.”

“You were fortunate,” said Ben.

“Well,” Ben’s mother went on, as if Ben hadn’t spoken, “you’ll get to meet Han this evening.  It _will_ be nice to have him home for once.”  She cast a sharp look at her son, and this time, he kept quiet.

After they finished their meal, Ben drew Poe aside and murmured, “Would you like to take a walk with me?  I know it’s cold out, but it’s been so long since I’ve been home—I’d like to see how the land has changed.”

“Of course, I’d enjoy it,” Poe told him.  He thought he’d probably enjoy doing anything at all with Ben, but he was also curious about the property owned by the Solo and Organa family—was their land as expansive as their home?

Ben shrugged into his coat and directed Poe through the kitchen to a back door leading outside, without a word to his mother about where he was going.  Mistress Organa, who was in the kitchen discussing the evening meal with the cook, looked after her son with a raised eyebrow.  Poe took pity on her and paused to tell her their plans, and she responded with that knowing smile of hers, the one which indicated she had a good idea about what her son and Poe felt for one another.

_At least she approves of me,_ Poe thought with some embarrassment as he wrapped himself in his cloak and followed Ben outside into the cold, dry air once more.  _Although I can’t understand why—why she would approve of her son loving another man._

Soon though, he forgot all about Mistress Organa; he was too overwhelmed by the vast stretch of open pasture behind her house.  The hill on which the house perched sloped downwards more gently in back than in front, and both the hill and a spread of land beyond it were fenced in.  Ben approached a stile set in the fence, mounted it, then turned and leaned down from the top to hold out his hand to Poe.

“I can climb a stile without assistance,” Poe pointed out.  He managed to keep a straight face at first, although he found it amusing that Ben treated him like some young girl he was courting.  But then Ben’s own face fell in a hurt expression, and he started to withdraw his hand, so Poe let his smile surface.

“Thank you, though,” he murmured.  He put his gloved hand in Ben’s and let the larger man lead him over the stile into the pasture.  Ben gave him a rather confused look that softened into a smile of his own when Poe kept hold of his hand as they walked.

“I had wondered if this tree was still here,” Ben said as they neared a huge, solitary oak some distance from the house.  “It was always my favorite. . . and yes, it seems to have done all right for itself.”  It had indeed, Poe thought, and he wondered how old the oak must be to have grown so massive.  Most of its leaves had already dropped in the unnaturally cold autumn, but large clumps of mistletoe adorned the otherwise bare branches.

Ben saw Poe looking up at the parasitic plant and said, “Mistletoe has been considered sacred for thousands of years, by many of the ancient cultures who knew magic.  It’s particularly powerful when found growing on an oak tree.”

“I wonder how the oak feels about it,” Poe commented.

Ben frowned.  “Poe, I’m being serious.”  _So am I,_ thought Poe, but he didn’t say it.

“Why is it sacred?” he asked instead.  Ben relaxed, and Poe realized that he enjoyed showing off his knowledge.  _I’ll have to remember that,_ Poe decided, hiding another smile.  _It’s a good way to placate him when he’s annoyed with me._

“Mistletoe is believed to bring fertility and love,” Ben said, “as well as peace, and it wards off evil.”  He looked down into Poe’s eyes and added, “A kiss beneath it will bring happiness and long life to the couple who shares it.”

Poe’s face felt very warm even in the cold air, and he reminded himself that he didn’t believe in magic.  But when Ben took a step closer to him and rested his hands on Poe’s shoulders, Poe didn’t protest; in fact, he tilted his face upwards in expectation of the kiss Ben seemed to be suggesting.  He heard Ben give a soft chuckle before bending his head to touch his lips to Poe’s.  To Poe’s surprise, Ben did not try to deepen the kiss or hold him longer.  Instead, he released Poe after that single touch and stepped away.  Poe scolded himself for the disappointment he felt— _I’m supposed to be discouraging this kind of behavior, not wanting it!_ he thought—but he couldn’t help being pleased when Ben reached for his hand again as they walked on.

“There’s something else I want to show you,” Ben told him when they reached the back fence of the pasture, where the open land ended.  The dreaded forest ran up to the fence, though the growth of trees wasn’t as dense as near Ben’s cottage.  Ben frowned in thought as he regarded the overgrown fence; then he choose the clearest spot and clambered over it.

“Can you follow me?” he asked, looking back at Poe.  Poe scrambled after him, silently cursing his shorter legs.

“What is it you want to show me in the middle of the woods?” Poe demanded as Ben trudged through the underbrush and into the trees.

“It’s not in the middle of the woods,” retorted Ben.  “It’s hardly any distance at all, in fact—but it’s where I used to come to play when I was a child.”

“Oh,” Poe breathed, finding himself eager to see the spot after all.  The thought of Ben ever being a child intrigued Poe, as did learning more about him.  Ben tramped down some brown, leafless vines and young trees, and held others aside until Poe passed, until finally they reached a clearing—or what must have been a clearing at one time.

“It’s become overgrown,” Ben sighed, “and of course, it’s nearly winter—years ago, in the summer, it was beautiful.”  He seemed disappointed, even a little ashamed, and he turned away from Poe and began pulling up a few of the offending plants who had staked their claim in his absence.

“It’s still beautiful,” Poe whispered.  And it was: despite the bare branches of the surrounding deciduous trees, many evergreens ringed the area to bestow it with color, and a carpet of moss and lichen had spread over the ground in the clearing.  Poe could imagine a little of how magical such a spot must have felt to a child—particularly a misunderstood child who wanted to escape everyone else for a while.

Ben finished clearing one corner of debris, and he stopped to look at Poe as the hunter thought about Ben’s past.

“Here,” Ben finally said, gently, as he gestured for Poe to come over.  “You can sit down—it’s dry.”  Poe went to him and sat on the ground, but then Ben moved away from him again and started to clear another spot some feet away.

“You’re not going to sit with me?” Poe asked.  The question came out more petulant than he intended, and Ben cast a smile at him over his shoulder.

“In a moment, but I thought we might get cold,” he said, “so I’m going to make a fire.”

“Oh.  That’s a good idea,” mumbled Poe.  Ben turned back to his work, piling up dried brush into the spot he’d cleared so the fire couldn’t spread.  His back hid most of his actions from Poe, who didn’t see him take out or strike a flint, but a moment later Ben had the little fire going.  He got back to his feet and returned to Poe, then lowered himself to sit just behind the smaller man with his long legs to either side.  Poe scolded himself for the second time that afternoon when a shiver of excitement went through him at the thought of Ben’s body so close to his own.

“Are you cold?” Ben murmured.

To hide the real cause of his trembling, Poe said, “A little, but the fire’s getting warmer.  I’ll be fine.”  He paused, sucking his lower lip between his teeth, then added, “Thank you for your concern for me.”

“I want you to be warm, Poe,” replied Ben, in the same soft tone as before.  “Warm, and cared for, and happy.”  Despite the brevity of their kiss beneath the oak and the mistletoe, Ben seemed to want to be close to Poe, for he suddenly slid his arms beneath the smaller man’s and wrapped them around Poe’s chest.  When he pulled Poe back against him, the hunter leaned back willingly.  Even through their layers of clothing, Ben felt warm to him.  Poe tilted his head back to rest on Ben’s shoulder, and Ben touched his lips to the curls on the side of Poe’s head.

“Yesterday, when you tested me, you didn’t let me finish my recitation of the Scripture,” murmured Ben.  “Will you allow me to continue now?”

“All right,” Poe said faintly, hardly aware of what Ben was saying; all his senses were overwhelmed by the other man’s limbs and body surrounding him.

“My love, behold, thou art fair,” Ben whispered against Poe’s ear.  “Behold, thou art fair, thine eyes are like the doves.”  He began to kiss Poe again, not his mouth but the side of his face, from his temple down along his cheek to his jaw.  When Ben reached the side of Poe’s chin, he continued, “My well-beloved, behold, thou art fair, and pleasant.”  Poe didn’t stop him this time, and the next words seemed to have been written for them out there in the woods: “Also our bed is green.  The beams of our house are cedars, our rafters are of fir.”

Poe turned his head to look at Ben, whose face was so close, Poe’s eyes could barely focus on it.  Catching sight of the tiny bruise that had formed on Ben’s cheek, Poe remembered him looking down and saying, “I have many blemishes.”

“Thou art all fair, my love,” Poe quoted before he could second-guess the impulse, “and there is no spot in thee.”  Ben drew in a breath of surprise, then tilted his head forward to kiss Poe’s lips.  This time, he tried to push his tongue between them, but Poe drew back playfully.  Ben made an impatient, frustrated noise yet smiled all the same and hugged Poe closer to his chest.

“My dove that art in the holes of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, show me thy sight,” Ben whispered.  “Let me hear thy voice, for thy voice is sweet and thy sight comely.”

“I am my well-beloved’s, and his desire is toward me,” Poe whispered back.  Ben exhaled again, in a faint laugh this time.

“My desire is toward you indeed,” he murmured, breaking the chain of Scriptural quotations.  “Poe. . . .”  When he bent his head forward again, Poe met Ben’s lips and parted his own willingly, and Ben kissed him deeply.  The feeling of Ben’s tongue in his mouth and their lips locked together sent desire down through Poe as well.  He heard himself moan and had a fleeting second in which to feel embarrassed and guilty about it before he forgot everything.  While Ben kissed him, nothing else mattered, and Poe could believe that the Lord truly had destined them for one another.

Poe reached back with one arm and, somewhat awkwardly, hooked it around Ben’s shoulders to hold the other man closer.  One of Ben’s hands dropped from Poe’s chest to rub his abdomen through his cloak, and Poe felt himself begin to come erect.  He flushed with renewed shame at how easily aroused he was.

_If he knew what I’d done to myself last night, thinking of him touching me like that!_ Poe lamented.  _He’d have no respect for me at all. . . ._   But then he forgot it all over again in the pleasure of Ben’s kisses.

Finally, Ben drew back to catch his breath.  As his breathing slowed, he looked into Poe’s eyes and whispered, “In my bed by night I sought him that my soul loved, I sought him, but I found him not.”  He pulled Poe fully into his arms so that Poe’s head rested on his shoulder.  “Then I found him whom my soul loved.  I took hold on him and left him not, till I had brought him unto my mother’s house.”

“Ben,” Poe murmured against his neck.  Ben made a soft sound when Poe’s lips brushed his skin, as lightly as his fingertips had brushed it during Ben’s trial.  Remembering the dream in which he searched Ben’s flesh with his mouth, Poe pressed a hesitant kiss to Ben’s throat, and the larger man moaned.

“Oh God, Poe, please!” Ben hissed.  Poe opened his mouth and caressed Ben a second time, tasting his skin, and once he began, he couldn’t stop.  As Poe kissed and occasionally nipped at his neck, Ben’s hand dipped lower.  Poe hardly noticed until the other man’s fingers delved between the folds of his cloak and pressed between his legs with only Poe’s pants between them and his erection.

Poe gasped and froze, and his humiliation only worsened when Ben breathed, “Mmn, Poe. . . you’re so hard.”

“I’m sorry!” Poe nearly wailed, squeezing his eyes shut.  “I-I can’t—when you kiss me, I can’t stop it.”

“Poe, why on earth should you be _sorry_?”  Ben sounded as if he might be fighting back laughter, and Poe hovered between relief that Ben hadn’t castigated him, and still more embarrassment that Ben apparently found him terribly naïve.  Ben hadn’t moved his hand, neither drawing it back nor rubbing Poe with it, and he asked more questions: “Do you want me to touch you?  Or do you want me to stop?  I won’t touch you if you don’t wish it.”

“I. . . I want—”  Poe swallowed and mumbled into Ben’s neck, “I want you to touch me.  It’s wrong, but I want you to touch me there!”

He felt Ben’s fingers shift, stroking up the length of his erection in one slow movement, as Ben whispered, “It isn’t wrong.  We wouldn’t be capable of feeling pleasure like this if it were always wrong.”  He cupped his hand over Poe’s groin and pressed more firmly; the resulting sensation made Poe whimper and rock his hips up against Ben’s hand involuntarily.

“It isn’t wrong,” Ben repeated in a tone as firm as his touch, “for human beings to know one another if it’s done in love.  That’s what separates us from animals—we have the choice whether or not to act, and whether to act out of base instinct or out of caring for one another.”  He bent his head over Poe’s and began to caress the hunter’s face once more as his hand moved between Poe’s legs.  He murmured, “I care for you, Poe, and I’ve waited my entire life for you.  God has led you to me, so loving you can’t be a sin.”

_Does he truly love me?_ Poe wondered dimly, as much as his brain could function through the haze of pleasure Ben was bringing him.  _All the “my well-beloveds” were only quotations of Solomon’s words, but he says this is loving me. . . ._   Then Ben’s fingers tightened, squeezing Poe’s erection, and all thought fled.

“A-ahh, Ben!” gasped Poe.

“I want to touch your bare flesh, Poe,” Ben said in a low voice that was little more than a growl.  “To take off my glove and put my hand under your clothing and touch you until your seed spills through my fingers—”

“Ben, no,” Poe managed to stammer before he begged, “Ben, yes!” like he wanted to do.  He could allow Ben’s hand on him like this, but to be uncovered, bared to Ben’s touch—that was too dangerous.  Poe whispered, “Please—please stop.”

He felt a shudder move though Ben’s body, but the larger man did what he asked: he released his grip on Poe’s erection and put his hand back to Poe’s chest, not even on his stomach this time.  Poe’s cock was left painfully hard, almost throbbing, and he literally had to pray for strength to keep from begging for the depraved act Ben had suggested.

Now Ben was the one to mutter an apology: “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have touched you, shouldn’t have brought you out here.”

“No, Ben—I want to be here with you,” Poe assured him in a trembling voice, “and I want for you to hold me.  Just please, don’t be angry with me for not wanting more.”

Ben sighed, “Of course I’m not angry with you, Poe.”  He pressed his face into Poe’s curly hair and mumbled, “But I can almost believe that you _do_ want more, and I want so much to give it to you.”

Poe hesitated before he finally admitted in a whisper, “I’m ashamed of what I want, because I have so little control of myself, becoming a-aroused—”  He could hardly even say it.  “—so easily.  You must think I’m a. . . a whore.”

“Poe!  Do you really believe that?”  Ben drew back enough to look down at Poe and cupped the side of smaller man’s face in one large hand.  “My dove, don’t you know how easily _you_ arouse _me_?  You must, you saw what happened when you examined me yesterday.”

“But I was touching you there,” Poe protested.  Ben’s lips twitched in a slight smile.

“Yes, you were.  And then after you took your hand away and had me sit down, when you were on your knees before me, running your hands over my legs—I was so hard for you, Poe,” Ben whispered.  “You don’t need to touch me _there_ for me to want you.”

“Oh,” was all Poe could say, hoarsely.

Ben drew him close again and told him, “Believe that I want you, Poe, as much as you want me. . . likely far more.  When you are ready, you have only to say the word, and I’ll devote myself to your pleasure and satisfaction.  But until then, I’ll consider myself blessed if I can hold you—if I can ‘see thy sight’ and ‘hear thy voice.’”

Poe huddled there in Ben’s arms, and Ben held him through the afternoon, until their limbs grew stiff and even their small fire couldn’t hold back the cold that encircled them as the sun sank low in the sky.  They talked some, but not about anything important: Poe related a few of the funnier mishaps he’d experienced in his years as a witch hunter, and Ben told Poe about how he passed the time on all the days he’d spent alone in the cottage near the woods.  He did not speak of the years he’d been gone to the so-called “coven,” nor of what his life had been like before he’d left home.  For as little as Poe knew, Ben’s life might as well have begun on the last All Hallows’ Eve, the night Ben called Samhain.

Finally, when Poe began to shiver under his cloak despite the warmth of Ben’s body, Ben insisted that they return to his mother’s house.  Poe protested a bit, not wanting their afternoon together to end, but he had to admit that he was cold, and hungry, when Ben laughed and challenged him.  Ben stamped out what few embers of the fire still burned; then he took Poe’s hand, and they began the return trek out of the forest and across the pasture.  They were only halfway back when the loud ringing of what must have been a very large bell sounded through the deepening twilight.

“Ugh,” Ben said with a cringe.  “I’d forgotten about that blasted bell.”

“What does it mean?” Poe asked him.  The vague concern he felt changed to amusement at Ben’s answer.

“Dinner,” he muttered.  “Mother always embarrassed the hell out of me, ringing that thing.  You can hear it all through town.”

In spite of Ben’s chagrin, Poe snickered.  “She must be very concerned about your nutrition.”

“It’s not just for me—in the warmer part of the year, she has farmhands working for her.  And of course there’s my father, off to God knows where,” Ben sighed.  They had reached the stile, and he escorted Poe over it as before, letting go of the smaller man’s hand after.  Poe caught himself feeling hurt, although he wasn’t sure he himself wanted anyone else to witness their affection for one another.

But just before they reentered the house, Ben put a hand on Poe’s shoulder and stopped him.  When Poe looked up at him curiously, Ben whispered, “May I have one more kiss?”

“Yes,” Poe breathed and leaned up to grant it.

\--

To be continued


	11. Chapter 11

Dinner was difficult.

Kylo’s father, Han Solo, had apparently gotten the message Poe relayed to Maz, for he was sitting at the table when Kylo and Poe came in.  Leia’s cook had laid out dinner, and Han had started to reach for a piece of bread when he looked up and saw his son.  Han drew his hand back.  His eyes moved from Kylo to Poe, then back again.

“Ben,” he muttered.  Kylo did not respond to him and busied himself instead with seating Poe at the table.  Han watched them, but before he spoke again, Leia entered the room.  Her own eyes swept over the three awkward men; then she smiled at Poe.

“Did you have a good afternoon?” she asked him as she sat down at the table, across from Kylo and next to her husband.

“Yes, mistress,” Poe said.  Kylo could almost physically feel him relax, although a second later, Poe’s cheeks flushed slightly.  _Probably remembering what we did out there,_ Kylo thought, and then he flushed too.  Poe continued to Leia, “Your land is lovely.  I enjoyed seeing it.”

“Thank you, Poe.  This unseasonable cold cut our harvest short this year, or else you might have gotten to see more than some dead grass and bare branches,” Leia commented.  As they ate their meal—more venison, roasted this time—she kept trying to make conversation, but she and Poe ended up doing most of the talking.  Kylo glared down at his plate, although after months of eating meagre meals alone, the food did taste delicious.  But he could just imagine all the questions his father was dying to ask, and Kylo wanted no part of them.

By the time they’d finished dinner, night had fallen, and Threepio lit some lamps to supplement the warm glow from the fireplace.  Han got up from the table as if attempting to escape, but a stern look from Leia made him grimace and turn instead to sit in a large chair near the fire.

“Please, go sit by the hearth,” Leia urged Poe.  “I’ll join you three in a moment—I’m going to have Threepio light a fire upstairs in your room and start heating some water so you can bathe before you go to bed.”

“Oh. . . thank you,” Poe murmured.

“You too, Ben,” Leia added, as if Kylo hadn’t had the sense to wash everyday now that he lived on his own.  But his irritation faded when he thought about Poe shirtless, with warm water running over the beautiful chest Kylo had only ever seen in his dreams.  His mouth went dry, and he watched Poe go over to the fire and warm himself before sitting down on the brick hearth.  Poe looked over at him with a pleading glance, and Kylo got up and went to sit beside him.  Poe smiled, and Kylo forgot everything else.

. . . Until Han cleared his throat and asked, “Poe, will you be leaving tomorrow, now that you’ve finished your tests?”

“ _Father_ ,” Kylo growled.

“What?” Han groaned in exasperation at being scolded.

Kylo glared at him, and his father glared right back until Kylo muttered, “We were hoping Poe would decide to stay here.”

“Stay here?  Why?” Han blurted out.  Kylo’s face grew hot.

“I’ve gotten fond of him,” Leia answered as she came back into the room.  “And it’s not any kind of life for a young man, traveling all the time with no real home to come back to.”

Han replied, “I don’t know, sounds pretty exciting to me,” with a hint of wistfulness in his voice.  “I did quite a lot of travelling at your age, Poe.”  Kylo cursed him silently (though not, of course, literally—he’d learned how quickly real curses could get out of hand).

“Yes, I’ve been many places,” Poe finally managed to speak for himself.  “But as much as I appreciate your kindness, Mistress Organa, Master Solo is right—I must return to the hunters’ council tomorrow and make my report.”

At his words, Kylo felt an almost physical ache in his heart.  He’d hoped that somehow, the time they’d spent together that afternoon had changed Poe’s mind. . . that by some miracle, Poe had fallen in love with him in a day and decided to stay.

 _But of course not, you fool,_ Kylo thought, now cursing himself instead of his father.  He looked down at the bricks of the hearth and blinked back the burning tears in his eyes.  _He wouldn’t even let me touch him intimately—of course he won’t stay with me._

Meanwhile, Han was oblivious to his son’s suffering, and he chatted with Poe amicably, asking, “What kind of report do you have to make?  How do you hunters operate, anyway?”

“We go where we’re sent by the council,” Poe answered him.  “This case was unusual, because Mistress Organa wrote directly to me, but when they saw the letter, the council agreed to send me here.”

 _“This case,”_ Kylo brooded.  _As if I’m only a case to him. . . ._

Poe continued, “When I return to the council, I’ll write out a report of my findings—the tests I made and the outcome of the trial.  That the elders found Ben innocent.”  Out of the corner of his eye, Kylo saw Poe glance at him, but Kylo kept his eyes fixed on the hearth.  “I’ll give my report to my direct superior, Mistress Phasma.  She keeps the council informed on her subordinate hunters’ activities, so she’ll speak with them if she feels there’s a need.  I doubt she will, however.  To her, there will be nothing notable to report.”  His words didn’t make Kylo feel any better.

“‘Mistress’?  Your superior is a lady?” Han asked with surprise.  Kylo hadn’t known it either, and he finally looked up as Poe answered.

“She might object to being called a ‘lady,’” he said with a little smile.  “She’d be offended if anyone dared to call her delicate or feminine—but yes, she is a woman.  She’s an excellent hunter, and one of the strongest fighters I’ve ever encountered.  I would trust her with my life.”

Kylo might have felt some jealousy over Poe’s praise of Mistress Phasma, but the admiration on Poe’s face as he spoke was fraternal, almost filial.  He clearly respected his superior, but he wasn’t in love with her.  Han and Leia asked him some other questions about his work; then Leia’s questions turned to focus on her husband and where he had been the past few days.  Kylo secretly reveled in seeing his father under scrutiny, not least because it meant no one was scrutinizing _him_.

As his parents talked, Kylo snuck another glance at Poe, only to find the hunter looking back at him.  The firelight reflected in Poe’s mahogany-colored eyes and glowed off his face as he gazed at Kylo from under his half-lowered lids.  Kylo was surprised that Poe didn’t look away from embarrassment when their eyes met, but this time, Poe did not seemed shamed by his desire for the other man.

Suddenly desperate to get Poe alone, Kylo murmured, “Are you tired?  The water for your bath should be ready by now if you’d like to retire.”  Poe’s eyes dropped from his for an instant, but then they returned, and Poe nodded.

“Yes,” he said in little more than a whisper.  “I’d like that.”

“I’ll take you upstairs,” Kylo told him.  His heart began to beat faster as he got to his feet and reached down a hand to help Poe up.  Then Kylo realized that both his parents had fallen silent and were watching the two young men.  Kylo tried not to look at either of them.

“You’re going to bed so early?” Han finally asked.

“Y-yes sir,” Poe stammered, “I, ah—I’m very tired.  The past few days have been stressful for me and for. . . for Ben as well, I’m sure.”  He gave Leia a deep nod, almost a bow.  “Goodnight, mistress, and thank you for your kindness in letting me stay here.”

“You’re very welcome, Poe,” she replied.  “Goodnight.  And goodnight, Ben.”

“Goodnight,” Kylo muttered as he walked briskly to the staircase, escaping before he had to speak again to his father.  Poe followed him, but once they were alone upstairs, he stopped outside the door to his room without inviting Kylo inside, as Kylo had hoped he would.

“I should bid you goodnight as well,” Poe murmured.  Now he looked down at their feet, not into Kylo’s eyes.  Kylo felt both frustrated and a little confused—had he so completely misread the way Poe looked at him?—but he forced himself to answer calmly rather than with anger.

“Goodnight then, Poe.”  He took Poe’s hand in his, brought it to his lips, and kissed first the backs of Poe’s fingers, then his palm.  Poe permitted it, and Kylo dropped his hand when he’d finished.  “You will wake me if you need anything?” Kylo asked.

“Yes.  Thank you, Ben.”  Finally, Poe looked him in the eyes again, with what seemed to be desire still in his gaze.  He leaned up to kiss the taller man’s cheek, then opened the door and disappeared into his room without another word.  Kylo stood looking at the closed door for another moment before he went to his own former bedroom.

Everything inside was just as he’d left it, eleven years before—the wardrobe still holding what clothing Kylo hadn’t taken with him, the quilt his mother had made for him spread over the bed.  Threepio had lit a fire in the small fireplace, as Leia had asked, and left water to warm in a kettle over it.  Kylo sighed and latched his door—just in case the nosy servant, or Kylo’s equally nosy mother, felt the need to check on him—then undressed.  He washed off briskly before he put his shirt back on and got into bed.  The linen sheets felt icy cold at first, but they quickly warmed with his body heat.  Kylo closed his eyes and thought of Poe lying only one room away from him, so close but so far from him at the same time.

\--

By the fireplace, Poe had wanted Ben, so suddenly and so desperately he completely intended to bring the other man into his room as soon as they got upstairs. . . but once there, Poe panicked.  The glimpse of frustration he caught in Ben’s eyes pained him, yet Poe retreated to the safety of his room, alone, in spite of it.  He bathed and put on a clean shirt, then sat down on the comfortable bed with his satchel.  He took out his mother’s Bible, but then he saw the jar of Ben’s lotion and took that out too.  He opened the Bible and tried to read as he rubbed the lotion into his hands.  However, his mind wandered back to Ben, the way the firelight had looked glowing on his face and hair.

Poe eventually gave up on his study.  Instead, when he’d finished smoothing the lotion over his hands, he put away the jar and the Bible and got into bed.  The down-stuffed mattress was soft, even softer than his bed in the inn, and Poe soon drifted into sleep, and into a familiar nightmare.

Over the years that had passed since his mother’s death, Poe had often dreamed of her death (her _murder_ , he sometimes thought resentfully upon waking, for a few moments at least before he fell into prayer asking for the Lord’s help in forgiving the hunter and magistrates who had caused her to drown).  This night, Poe had the dream again, with one difference: it was Ben, not his mother, who was bound and cast into the lake, and Poe was not a child but a grown man.  Yet he was still restrained by the town sheriff and prevented from running into the water after his loved one, just as he had been as a boy.  At eight years of age, he would probably have only drowned himself rather than saved his mother, but in this dream, his inability to help Ben made things worse because while Poe hated the water, he _could_ swim.  He might have been able to rescue Ben if he could only break free from the sheriff’s grip.

And beyond all that, Poe felt an abiding sense of guilt which lingered even after he awoke, startled from sleep by his own scream.  In the dream, he was certain that _he_ was the cause of Ben’s suffering.  Poe couldn’t have said why—maybe because he had failed to acquit Ben, or because he wasn’t strong enough to free himself and go to his beloved’s aid.  But whatever the reason, Poe felt that Ben was dying, and he was to blame.

Poe sat up in bed and looked wildly around the unfamiliar room, barely visible now in what little light came from the dying fire.  Everything was calm and still, but guilt and fear suffused him anyway.  He felt that somehow, Ben was still in danger, still suffering.

 _He seems to set such store in dreams,_ Poe thought as he clutched his bed’s quilt to his chest.  _What if it means something really is wrong?_   He let go of the quilt and crept out of bed with a shiver as the cool air hit his bare legs and feet.  Poe’s pride made him hesitant to go to Ben, but the dream had so shaken him, he was desperate to know that the other man was all right—and besides, Poe now found the thought of being alone all night unbearable.

He slipped from his room and stood a moment before the door to Ben’s, then knocked on it.

“Ben?” Poe called in a low voice.  He wasn’t sure Ben would have heard either the knock or the call if he was sleeping, but after only a few seconds, the door open and Ben stood looking down at him.

“Poe!” he whispered and pulled Poe into his arms.  “What is it?  I heard you cry out—”  He broke off, alarmed, when his concern caused Poe to break down into tears.  Poe felt humiliated at weeping so easily, and he hid his face in Ben’s shirt, but he couldn’t stop crying with relief and exhaustion.

“You’re all right,” he mumbled against the larger man’s chest.  “I—I dreamed—”

“Shh.”  One of Ben’s hands went to Poe’s hair and stroked it, and with the other at Poe’s back, he coaxed the hunter into his room.  “Come in, it’s too cold for you to stand out here undressed.”

Poe went willingly, huddling close as Ben shut and latched his door then pulled him to the bed.  It was as soft and warm as Poe’s had been, and he began to feel better once he was lying at Ben’s side, covered in the quilt and wrapped in the other man’s arms.

“What did you dream, my dove?” Ben murmured when Poe’s tears had ceased and they had lain still for a few moments.

Poe tilted his face up on the pillow to look at him.  “That they killed you.”

Ben’s brows knit in concern.  “That who killed me?”

“The people who killed my mother,” Poe said.  “I dream of her death often, but this time. . . it was you they were drowning, and I couldn’t save you.  I tried, but they held me, yet I still—”  He shuddered and closed his eyes, willing himself not to cry again.  “It was still my fault!  I wasn’t enough, I wasn’t good enough to save you—”

“Poe, no. . . shh,” Ben hissed again.  He pulled Poe tight against him, with Poe’s head cradled in the crook of his neck and shoulder, and caressed his brown curls.  “Do not worry for my sake, they cannot harm me.  And you _are_ good enough, well-beloved, you _have_ saved me.  Dooku and the others pronounced me innocent, because of _you_.”

“I still. . . I still feel. . . .” Poe began, but now his fear was receding.  Ben tugged on his hair to pull Poe’s head back again, then leaned his forehead against Poe’s.

“And not only have you saved my life, you’ve saved me,” Ben whispered.  “Before you came here, I was filled with despair.  I felt like I was being torn apart—I didn’t know what I lived for, or why.  But then I saw your face and felt your touch, and I knew I lived for _you_.  Poe, our souls are intertwined for all eternity.”

Poe’s lips moved, trying to form some reply, but no words came.  _We **are** soulmates,_ he managed to think, _just as I longed for. . . .  He truly believes it._

Ben went on in his low, soft whisper, “You are my Jonathan, my Daniel.  You are my sacrament, Poe, and I love you.  I love you with all my heart.”

“Ben,” Poe finally got out, “Ben—”  His mouth had gone dry, and he closed it to swallow, wincing, then pressed his lips to the other man’s.  He still felt some doubts—uncertainty not of what he felt, but that there was no sin in speaking it, or acting upon it.  Yet his dream of losing Ben forever had made Poe realize just how that prospect terrified him.

Ben kissed him, then without drawing back, Poe mumbled against his lips, “Ben, I love you.  I don’t understand how I can, after only a few days, but I _do_ , I love you.  Tomorrow, I’ll return to the council and make my report, but then—then I’ll come back to you, I swear it.”

“Poe!” Ben gasped.  He pulled away just enough to look into Poe’s eyes; Ben’s own were wide and very dark in the dim light.  “Do you mean that?  You love me and you’ll—you’ll stay with me?”  When Poe nodded, Ben’s mouth broke into a smile even though he asked, “But what about your calling?  The hunting God led you to do?”

“I. . . I don’t know,” Poe admitted.  “Maybe I am disobeying Him, I don’t know.  But I can’t—I can’t stand to go on without you!”

“You won’t have to.”  Ben drew his hand through Poe’s curls to rest against the side of his face, stroking Poe’s cheek with his thumb.  “Remember—‘much water cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it.’  No one can keep me from you, so long as you desire me.”

“I do desire you,” murmured Poe.  He turned his head to kiss Ben’s palm, then lifted his eyes back to the other man’s.  “Ben, hold me, please.”

Ben put both arms around him again and pulled him close.  Poe felt Ben’s lips against the side of his neck, first merely resting there but then caressing his skin.  When Poe tilted his head back to facilitate the caresses, Ben’s lips parted, and his tongue traced a damp trail up the tendon leading to Poe’s jaw.

“You taste so sweet,” Ben whispered.  He sucked on the skin at the back of Poe’s jaw, just below his ear, flicking his tongue over it.  The touch of his mouth made Poe shiver and his skin break out in goosebumps.  He tangled his fingers in Ben’s long hair and pulled, as Ben had done to him.

“Please, I want to kiss you,” Poe begged.

Ben gave a low, indulgent chuckle and said, “You can kiss me as much as you’d like, and I won’t complain.”  He pressed their mouths together and drew Poe’s tongue in.  Poe felt the same apprehension he had every other time they’d kissed, the notion that he should stop, that it was wrong.  But this time, he pushed past it and kept going, and soon it faded into the back of his consciousness.

 _Maybe that is how Satan works in us,_ Poe thought, even as he drove his tongue deep into his lover’s mouth.  _He urges us to ignore the Spirit, and each time we do it, it gets easier and easier. . . ._   But then Ben tightened his hold on him, and Poe was able to ignore that thought too.

Ben shifted Poe onto his back and leaned over him, kissing Poe harder and faster and deeper.  Poe could sense his restraint and how Ben was holding back—and finally, he didn’t _want_ Ben to hold back; he wanted to feel the full force of the other man’s passion for him.  Wrapping his own arms tightly around Ben’s back, Poe tugged him closer, coaxing Ben to lie on top of him.  For an instant, Ben resisted, but when Poe whispered, “Please,” into his mouth, he shifted his weight completely onto Poe’s body and kissed Poe all the harder.

Ben’s body felt warm and heavy as it pinned Poe down to the bed, but Poe felt curiously secure rather than confined or intimidated.  Yet being covered by the larger man excited him too, and he realized he was coming erect beneath his shirt, and that that Ben would certainly feel it.  Again Poe had to squelch his misgivings, this time a feeling of shame.  That became easier when Ben started to rub against Poe, and Poe felt that he was hard too.

Ben made a choked, groaning sound through their kisses as he thrust his hips downward against Poe’s.  Even through their clothing, Poe could feel how firm he was— _how firm and **big** ,_ Poe realized.  He hadn’t seen Ben’s full erection the day before, and imagining its size excited Poe further.  He slid his hands down Ben’s back to grasp his hips and spread his own thighs so he could better feel the larger man’s thrusts.

“Nngh, Poe!” Ben gasped.  He drew back his head and stared down into Poe’s eyes.  “Do you want—do you want me to touch you?”

Poe’s face flushed with his shame, but he whispered, “Yes.  And I want—I want to see you.  All of you at once, not a little at a time with me having to pretend I don’t desire you.”  Ben smiled again—albeit with a hint of predatory lust mixed in with the humor—and he sat back to kneel over Poe’s thighs.  Poe saw his chest rise and fall as he took a deep breath; then Ben grasped the hem of his shirt and stripped it up and off over his head.

His body was beautiful: lean yet muscular, very pale, marked with all the spots Poe had touched only the day before but with far different intentions than he held now as he reached up to lay his hands on Ben’s chest.  He drew his fingertips down over Ben’s nipples—Ben gasped—to his abdomen, then past his hipbones to his thighs.

“My well-beloved,” whispered Poe.  His eyes fixed on Ben’s erection, which was every bit as magnificent as he’d imagined, if somewhat overwhelming.  Poe wanted to touch that too, but he restrained himself from doing it without Ben’s permission.

“My dove,” Ben whispered in return.  “Please, let me uncover you too.  I’ve seen little more than your face and hands, except in my dreams. . . and as beautiful as they are, I want to see all of you.”

Poe bit his lip and nodded.  He thought Ben’s hands might have shaken a little as he raised up on his knees so he could push Poe’s shirt up his thighs and hips.  Poe closed his eyes as his body was exposed, but Ben undressed him gently, sliding an arm under Poe’s back to lift him up so Ben could pull his shirt off.  Only when Ben laid him down on his back once more did Poe open his eyes and cast a nervous look up at the other man.

“I don’t look like you,” Poe muttered.  “I’m so much smaller—I mean, of course I’m shorter, but I’m smaller _there_ too.  And I’m so dark. . . .”

“Poe, you are beautiful, all of you,” Ben reassured him.  He bent over Poe to caress his throat, then drop kisses down his breastbone in between words.  “‘Dark but comely,’ and your cock is perfect.”  He hadn’t kissed lower than Poe’s waist, but Poe flushed hotly at his words.

“Ben!”

“What?”  Ben looked up at him, with a little grin that grew when he saw Poe’s blush.  “You don’t want me to call it that?”

“I-it’s crude,” Poe protested.

“I’ll call it your prick then,” Ben offered, and Poe dissolved into laughter.  Ben laughed too and kissed his stomach again before murmuring, “I’ll call it whatever you like, my dove, if you’ll let me touch it, the way I wanted to in the forest.”

Poe quivered at the prospect.

“Yes,” he whispered.

Ben sat up again and wrapped his long fingers around Poe’s shaft, then stroked slowly upward as Poe had done while examining him.  Poe whimpered at the feeling of the first hand to touch him there besides his own.

“Do you like that?” Ben asked him softly.

“Oh yes,” Poe hissed.  He arched his back slightly to thrust into Ben’s fist, then gasped when Ben pressed his lips to the head of his cock. “B-ben—!”  Ben laughed again and sucked it into his mouth, pushing the foreskin back with his tongue and making Poe cry out wordlessly at the warm, wet sensation on his sensitive flesh.

When Ben lifted his head again, Poe groaned, “Please, Ben!”

“What do you want, my love?”  Ben leaned over him again and trailed his fingers over Poe’s chest and stomach.

“I want to touch you too.”  Poe looked up at him, and when Ben nodded breathlessly, Poe closed his small, dark hand around his erection.  Ben reclined on one elbow and watched.  As Poe’s fingers moved over him, he groaned, and his cock swelled a little more, something Poe hadn’t believed possible.

After only a moment, he gasped, “Oh God, Poe, stop!”  Poe drew his hand back in alarm, and Ben gave a weak laugh.  “You’ll make me climax if you keep on that way—I’ve wanted so much to feel your touch, it will all be over far too soon!”  He put his arms around Poe again and pulled the smaller man up into his embrace once more.  “Let me pleasure you instead, my sweet.”

Poe kissed him and shuddered when he felt Ben’s hand caress his erection again; then he recalled the impression, or fantasy, or whatever it had been, of them lying together with Ben touching him in just that way.

“Please, Ben,” Poe whispered, “like this. . . .”  He turned to lie with his back pressed to Ben’s chest and tugged the larger man’s arms back around him; then he took Ben’s hand and, shyly, drew it back down to his groin.  “Now, touch me.”

“Poe. . . .”  Ben’s voice sounded husky as he resumed his stroking.  “Tell me. . . why, why like this?”

Poe swallowed, too embarrassed to tell Ben the entire truth.  “I. . . I imagined you holding me like this.”

“Did you?”  He felt one of Ben’s long legs hook over his thigh and hold him even closer.  Ben’s grip tightened on his cock, and then Ben’s own erection pressed against his ass.  Poe drew in a sharp breath at how big it felt against him.

“Did you imagine this?” Ben whispered into his ear.  He stroked Poe firmly with one hand and splayed the other over his chest, fingering a nipple.  “Or did you remember it?”

“Remember. . . .” Poe echoed with a faint groan of pleasure.  His nipple stiffened, and Ben tugged it between his thumb and finger.

“Did you remember our dreams, where I held you like this and told you how much I love you?”

 _Our dreams. . . ._   Poe couldn’t speak; he was too overwhelmed with the sensations Ben’s hands were bringing him, and with the import of what Ben had murmured.  _He said he’d known me all his life, in his dreams—and for a moment last night, it was as if I remembered them too. . . ._

Ben didn’t seem to expect an answer.  Instead of waiting for one, he caressed Poe’s ear, nibbling down the curve of the outside and sucking on the lobe.  Poe had never thought of his ears as particularly erogenous, but Ben’s mouth set fire to his body wherever it touched.  Soon enough, Poe forgot his shock at what Ben had said and fairly melted into pure bliss.

As a delicious tension begin to build in Poe’s abdomen, Ben murmured into his ear, “I love you, Poe.”

“Ben,” Poe gasped, “Ben, I love you!  Touch me, please!”  He had begun to rock his hips forward in time to Ben’s strokes, and each time Poe drew back, Ben thrust up against him, his shaft between Poe’s buttocks and the head pushing into the small of his back.

“Yes, my well-beloved,” Ben moaned.  His tongue flicked into the shell of Poe’s outer ear.  “I’ll give you whatever you want, whatever you need.”   He pumped Poe’s cock faster, sending pulses of pleasure all through him and increasing the pressure at the base of his shaft to almost painful heights.  Poe was close to climaxing, and the feeling of Ben’s erection grinding against him only furthered his arousal.

Through clenched teeth, Poe groaned, “Ben, I—I need—”  He was too embarrassed to say it until Ben urged him.

“What, Poe?” he nearly growled.  He stopped the motion of his hand, and Poe whined with want.  “Tell me what you need.”

“Please, let me come!” cried Poe.  “I need to come!”

“Do it then, Poe, come for me!”  Ben hissed as he resumed pumping Poe’s cock with long, firm strokes.  He tugged sharply on Poe’s nipple then lifted his fingers to Poe’s mouth and thrust two of them in between his lips.  They muffled Poe’s cries—in retrospect, Poe realized that had probably been a good thing, since otherwise, Ben’s parents might have heard them—and Poe sucked them deep into his mouth.

“Mmmnngh!” Poe groaned around Ben’s fingers as he bucked forward into his other hand.  Poe’s whole body shook with tremors when he finally climaxed, and he gave himself over entirely to the ecstasy flowing through him.  He barely heard Ben moan into his hair, and only when Poe had finished and collapsed on his side did he realize that Ben was coming too.  Poe felt the larger man shuddering against him and the heat of his semen shooting onto Poe’s lower back.

“Nnngh, Poe,” Ben gasped.  He kept thrusting a moment more, then lay still.  He inhaled deeply before whispering, “You belong to me, my love, and I belong to you.  We were made for each other, and I will always love you. . . always.”  Poe trembled with bliss in his arms.

But as the glow of Poe’s orgasm faded, the old, familiar guilt began to creep back in; he felt as if he’d done something terribly wrong.  Then, for perhaps the first time, he fought back against it.

 _No,_ Poe told himself, _it wasn’t wrong—it **isn’t** wrong to be with him like this.  He loves me, and I love him. . . as my own soul.  God did make us for each other, He must have._

When Ben drew his fingers from Poe’s mouth, Poe caught his hand and kissed it before he sat up shakily.  Ben’s other hand still rested on his softening cock, and Poe flushed as he looked down at it. . . and at the cum coating his abdomen.

“I’m afraid I’ve made a mess in your bed,” he mumbled, but Ben only laughed.

“Only on yourself, not the bedclothes—and I’ve done worse to your back.”  He sat up too and breathed, “You look lovely like this.”  He pressed close to Poe’s back, spreading his own cum between them, and embraced Poe with one arm while he trailed the fingers of the other hand through the stickiness on Poe’s stomach.  Then, to Poe’s amazement, Ben put his fingers in his mouth and sucked them clean.

“Wh-what are you. . . _Ben_ ,” Poe stammered.

“I want to taste you,” Ben whispered in reply, “all of you.”  He bent his head to kiss Poe’s neck and shoulder.  “My love, if you’ll truly stay with me, I’ll bring you such pleasure, to every part of you. . . with every part of me.  My fingers, my mouth, my—”

“Shh!” Poe interrupted with a shaky laugh.  “You’ll excite me again, talking like that.”

“Is that such a terrible thing?” Ben chuckled.  “But perhaps you’re right and we should rest instead.”  He got up from the bed and drew Poe up after him, toward the kettle of bath water Ben had left near the fireplace.  “Let me clean you off first, though.”

Poe let Ben wash his back and stomach with the cooled water, but stopped him before Ben wiped his own abdomen clean.

“Let me taste you too,” Poe whispered, though his face burned in a blush as he said it.  Ben nodded, his eyes also burning, and Poe scooped a little of his cum onto his fingers and brought it to his lips.  As he licked it off and swallowed it, despite the strong taste, he heard Ben make a low noise deep in his throat.

Ben murmured, “So beautiful,” then caught Poe’s head in his hands and kissed him.  After the kiss, he asked, “If I can’t have you now, will you let me please you once more in the morning, before we must part?”

“Yes,” Poe whispered back.  “Then I can think of it all the way back to the hunters’ council, and until I can be with you again.”

\--

When they were both clean, they got back in Kylo’s bed, and Poe fell asleep in his lover’s arms.  Kylo, however, lay awake for some time with his cheek resting on Poe’s soft hair.  He had never expected to win Poe that very night, not after the hunter had gone to his room alone, but now. . . .

 _This is real,_ Kylo thought, _and not a dream.  He is here with me, and he says he will return to stay with me. . . to stay, to be mine always._ He hardly dared to believe it.

Kylo had too pessimistic a nature to believe that everything would be easy for him, even with Poe at his side.  Despite his formal acquittal, he knew the townspeople would not trust him—might not _ever_ trust him, even though they likely wouldn’t either drag him to the stake now that Dooku had proclaimed his innocence.

 _Dooku_. . . .  Even the thought of the name made Kylo bitter.  _Dooku who’s as much a witch as I am—nay, even more of a witch.  He’s been watching me ever since I returned here, waiting for me to make some mistake so they can reclaim me.  He won’t let me go so easily—Snoke won’t let him.  And Samhain is only two nights away now._   That was of far more concern than the townspeople’s mistrust.  The ordinary humans, even if they hated Kylo, could do him little real harm.  The other witches, however, _could_ , especially on their Sabbath.

 _Perhaps it’s best that Poe does leave tomorrow,_ Kylo decided.  _He’ll be away from my protection, but he’ll be away from **them**.  If Dooku got any inkling of what Poe is to me, he could be in real danger.  By the time he does return to me, Samhain will be past, and he’ll be safer._

Kylo drew Poe’s sleeping form a little closer to him and ran his fingertips over the tan skin of the hunter’s back, tracing a glyph of protection over it.  _My well-beloved, I’ll cast spells on you and everything that surrounds you, until not even Snoke himself can touch you_ , swore Kylo.  _Then when you come back to me, I’ll make you my bride and no one will ever separate us again._

Finally satisfied for the time being, Kylo relaxed and allowed himself, for the first time, to sleep with his soulmate in his arms.

\--

To be continued


	12. Chapter 12

When Poe awoke the next morning, Ben was still sleeping.  Poe luxuriated in the warmth of the other man’s body, sliding his arms around Ben’s broad chest and huddling close against him.  They had slept unclothed, and thinking of that—not to mention what they’d done _before_ sleeping—made Poe’s banished shame creep back into his mind, until he drove it off again with the memory of what Ben had whispered to him: _You belong to me, my love, and I belong to you.  We were made for each other, and I will always love you. . . always._

Poe raised up on one elbow so he could see Ben’s face, and he stroked a lock of black hair back from the other man’s pale skin.  The sun had barely risen, and it cast a weak ray of light into the room, just enough to allow Poe to see Ben’s features.  He pressed kisses to Ben’s high forehead and the end of his large nose, then touched his mouth to Ben’s as well.  Ben’s lips shifted against Poe’s, and he murmured Poe’s name questioningly.  When Poe drew back, Ben’s eyes were open, focusing on him.

“Poe,” Ben whispered again as he brought up one hand to the back of Poe’s head.  He drew Poe back in for another kiss then said, “I thought this morning would never come, the day I’d wake up to find you beside me. . . yet here you are.  Did you sleep well, my dove?”

“Yes,” Poe told him.  “I had no more nightmares.”

“I’m glad.”  Ben wrapped his arms around the smaller man and pulled him close to caress and nuzzle the side of his neck.  Poe moaned faintly, without meaning to, and Ben chuckled, “It must still be early—I’m glad of that too, because that means I have time to make love to you as I promised, before we have to get up for breakfast.”

“Hmph, is that all you think about?” Poe pretended to complain.

“What?  Breakfast?”

“Ugh, you know what I mean.”  Poe gasped as Ben nipped his neck, then stammered, “Y-you’re wicked, Benjamin Organa. . . so wicked.”  He heard Ben’s breath quicken as Poe spoke his name; then Ben exhaled against his neck.

“Then perhaps that’s why God destined you for me, Poe Dameron,” Ben said.  He lay his head back against his pillow so that he could look up into Poe’s face, smiling.  “He sent you here to make me good.”

“I feel like the opposite is happening,” replied Poe as he echoed the smile.  “Instead of me making you good, _you’re_ making _me_ become wicked.”

“Oh?”  Ben slid a hand down Poe’s body, along his side to begin rubbing his hip.  “Does that mean you _do_ want me to make love to you?”

Poe hesitated, but not for long.

“Yes,” he whispered, “please.”

He thought Ben meant only to use his hand, but after a few moments of that, Ben coaxed Poe to lie back.  Ben lay over him and kissed his chest, then worked his way downward under the bedclothes until he was caressing Poe’s erection.  This time Poe didn’t stop him, despite how decadent the act felt, and he eventually climaxed in Ben’s mouth with his fingers laced into his lover’s long, dark hair.  As the fog of ecstasy cleared from Poe’s head afterwards, he could feel Ben nuzzling his stomach and tracing patterns on his sides with long fingers.

“Ben,” Poe mumbled.  Ben lifted his head.

“Yes, my dove?”

“I. . . I don’t know.”  Poe laughed shakily.  “I suppose I never imagined anyone ever putting his mouth _there_ , is all.”  Ben laughed too and pulled himself up toward the head of the bed so he could look down into Poe’s face.

“But you enjoyed it?”

“‘Enjoy’ is hardly an adequate word to describe it,” Poe replied with a smile, “but yes.  I did.”

“Then there are a thousand other ways I can teach you to enjoy me,” Ben whispered.  He put a fingertip to Poe’s forehead and swirled it over his tan skin before dipping it into the waves of his hair.  “Other places I can put my mouth on you, and places on me where you can put yours.  Things I can do to you with my fingers, and things you can do to me with every part of your exquisite body.”

His deep voice had grown husky with desire as he spoke, reminding Poe that Ben hadn’t climaxed.  Poe felt he ought to reciprocate somehow, but he wasn’t certain he wanted to do to Ben what Ben had done to him. . . not yet, anyhow.  It seemed less sinful somehow to be the recipient of such pleasure than to give it; and beyond that, Poe wasn’t sure he knew _how_ to do it.  Ben was larger there than Poe was, and Poe’s mouth was smaller than Ben’s, and how on earth did one suck on—on _that_ and breathe and then swallow the ejaculate, all at the same time?  The thought of trying almost frightened Poe, and he hoped Ben wouldn’t ask him to do it.

As if he could read Poe’s mind—or maybe just the look on Poe’s expressive face—Ben frowned and murmured, “Are you sure you enjoyed it?”

“Yes, of course,” Poe assured him, then cast about for an excuse for his reticence.  “It’s just that—that I had no idea there were so many ways for two men to make love.”  Or, Poe realized, a man and a woman, for that matter.  He supposed a man _could_ do those things, or something equivalent, with a woman, but he couldn’t imagine any woman he _knew_ doing them.

_Mistress Phasma would probably geld any man who even suggested it to her,_ Poe thought with a faint smile.

Seeing it, Ben smiled too and asked, “What, then, did you think making love to a man entailed?”  Poe’s amusement vanished, and he felt himself flush with shame.  This time, its source was his own naïveté, and the fact that Ben seemed to be making fun of him.

“I assumed you’d use your hand,” Poe said more sharply than he meant to, “or else sodomize me.”  Ben’s brow knitted, and he looked away.

“Poe, don’t call it that,” he muttered.

“Why not?  That’s what it is, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not!  We talked about that, about what happened in Sodom.”  Ben’s eyes locked on Poe’s again with a pained expression, although he was speaking as if Poe were a wayward child.  “To call it sodomy is like saying that I’d be using you. . . _raping_ you.  I want to know you, Poe, but not like that, not if you don’t want it—not if it isn’t us becoming one.”

As he spoke, Ben had put his hand back to Poe’s hair and was stroking it tenderly, soothingly.  Poe wanted to lean his head into Ben’s touch, yet at the same time he still felt as if Ben were trying to placate him.

“Have you really never had a lover before?” Poe asked.

“Really,” Ben said.  “I am a virgin, in every way.  I’ve never so much as touched another person intimately, or been touched like that, before you.”

“Then how do you know so much about—about such things, when I know so little?” challenged Poe.  “How did you know what to do to me with your mouth?”  Ben’s pale face reddened a bit.

“I’ve read things,” he muttered.  “Heard things.  From books and people someone like you wouldn’t have been exposed to.”

“Someone like me?  What does that mean?”

Ben sighed, and when he answered, his voice had taken on a tense quality.  “Someone—someone devout, religious. . . a righteous witch hunter, in short.”

“Someone naïve, you mean,” grumbled Poe, “and uneducated?”

“No!”  Ben half-shouted, half-growled the word, and he loomed over Poe, leaning so close that his hair hung down and brushed Poe’s cheek.  In a lower tone, he said, “Someone innocent, not ignorant.  As pure of heart and mind as he is of body.  I truly _am_ wicked, perhaps in every way except sexually—and you truly are good.  Maybe I _am_ corrupting you, instead of you purifying me.  But I do so out of my love for you, my _need_ for you.”

“Ben, you aren’t wicked,” Poe murmured.  Even though he was still a little angry, he also felt sorry for lashing out, because Ben seemed truly hurt by it.  “I didn’t mean that.”

“But I am,” Ben whispered.  “Instead of driving you away like I set out to do, I drew you in.  Because I wanted so badly to make our dreams into our reality, I’ve upset your entire life.  I’ve dared to ask you to stay here with me, to abandon your calling and your good work. . . for _me_.”

But Poe’s attention had been snared by something else: “Our dreams?” he asked.  His eyes searched Ben’s for confirmation of what he had suddenly realized.  “Last night, you said you held me and touched me in our dreams. . . and before that, you said you’d dreamed of me for years.  Do you mean that—that you’ve dreamed about us being lovers?”

“Yes.”  Ben said it softly but with an intensity that unnerved Poe.  “We _are_ lovers in our dreams, Poe.  It’s not just that _I’ve_ dreamed it, you’ve dreamed it too.  We’ve _lived_ it, while we slept.  I couldn’t tell you before now, because I was afraid of frightening you away, but. . . but as I said before, I don’t want to have any secrets from you.”  His hand was still stroking Poe’s hair, but his eyes stayed fixed on Poe’s, pinning the smaller man down as effectively as Ben’s body weight was.  “That’s the other reason I know so much about how to make love to you—I’ve had years of experience doing it, of learning what you like.  We learned it together, exploring each other in our dreams, where you weren’t ashamed of it because it _was_ a dream and not reality.”

“If that’s true, if we’ve been—been lovers for all these years. . . then why don’t I remember it?” Poe demanded.

“Because you are not a witch,” said Ben.

Poe gave a growl of frustration and put his hands on Ben’s shoulders, trying to shove him away.  Ben let Poe push him aside so Poe could sit up, but then he grasped Poe’s hands and clutched them to his chest.

“Poe, you have to believe me,” he begged.  “It isn’t an affectation of mine, or a delusion.  I thought—I thought maybe you were beginning to accept it, when you told me you’d imagined us lying together like we did last night.  You _remembered_ it, something from our past together.  Even though it’s just the smallest piece of what we’ve shared, I thought it meant you were starting to believe.”

“I _can’t_ believe it, Ben!” Poe snapped.  “Do you know what it would mean if you were a witch, a _real_ witch?”

“It would mean that your narrow view of the world would explode,” Ben said flatly, although he still clasped Poe’s hands.  “It would mean that you’d have to open your mind to a lot more than the idea that you can love another man without sinning.  Is that why you refuse to listen to me?  You’ll change everything else about your life for me, but not that?”

Poe snatched his hands away, stung by the accusation in Ben’s words and the tone of his voice.  He looked for his shirt, spotted it discarded on the floor by the bed, and leaned down to pick it up so he could pull it on over his head before getting out from under the blankets.

“No,” he growled from underneath the shirt as he wriggled into it.  “It means something far worse than you opening my mind, which you find so regrettably narrow.”  Poe tugged the shirt down in place then got out of Ben’s bed, shivering when the cold air of the room cut through the meager linen he wore.

“Poe—” Ben tried to interrupt, but Poe didn’t look at him.  He couldn’t let himself, because otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to cross the room to the door.

“‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’” Poe muttered.  “The Bible says that, and all the creative interpretation in the world cannot change its meaning.  If you were a witch, I would be bound to destroy you.”

“I _am_ a witch, Poe,” said Ben, clearly and firmly.  “And you will not destroy me.  I’m sure of that now.”

“How so?  Because you’ll fight me if I try?”  Poe finally looked back at him, with his hand resting on the doorlatch.

Ben shook his head and murmured, “No, I’m sure of it because you love me.  You wouldn’t do anything to hurt me, and deep down, you know I’m not your enemy.  _Witches_ are not your enemy.  No witch killed your mother—”

“ _Ben_.”  Poe flinched and turned away to face the polished wood of the door.  “How _could_ you?”

“Because it is the truth.”  Ben got out of bed, at first not even noticing his nakedness, but then he scooped up his shirt and pulled it on.  “Poe, I don’t wish to hurt you anymore than you would deliberately hurt me.  But you have to face what is real.”

“And what is that?” Poe muttered against the wood.  “You’re the one who says I’ve lived a whole other life in my dreams.  Is that what you say is real?”

“Our dreams are part of it,” murmured Ben.  He had crossed the room to come very close to Poe, and Poe could sense Ben’s presence just behind him: his size, his scent, the warmth of his body.  He went on, “Only a part, though.  The rest of the reality you must face is that magic is real, witches are real.  And I am one.  Some of us follow the Dark, some follow the Light. . . some make our own wild course.  But denying any of that will not bring your mother back.”

When Poe offered no response—he had none to give—Ben put a hand on his shoulder and whispered, “I know what the Bible says.  And I know that all the hermeneutics I can offer may not be enough to convince you that I deserve to live.”  Poe cringed, but Ben continued without a pause.  “I can tell you that it is the Old Testament law, the law of Moses superseded by Christ’s sacrifice.  I can tell you that I have turned my back on the magic of the Dark, because my dreams of you gave me hope that I can find a future in the Light.  I can tell you all of that, and maybe none of it would save me.  But your love will, because you are _good_ , Poe.”

“I’m not,” Poe said faintly, “not if I disobey God’s commandment.”

“Then what is God commanding you to do?” Ben countered.  “Is He telling you I must die, even though he destined us for one another?  Is He telling you that you haven’t suffered enough, and that you must watch the murder of another person you love?”

“Stop talking to me this way,” Poe hissed, “like you have all the answers, and I’m a—a _child_ you have to guide—”

“ _Poe!_ ”  Ben hauled on Poe’s shoulder, and Poe finally turned around to face him.  He glared up into the taller man’s face—until he saw the tears streaming from Ben’s dark eyes as Ben said, “I don’t know _how_ to talk to you, how to convince you to believe me.  All I can offer you is the logical—”

“Ben, there’s no logic in _any_ of this,” Poe interrupted.  He couldn’t bear to see Ben weep, and he put his hands up to the white, tear-streaked face above his.  “Magic isn’t logical, witches aren’t logical—me loving you at first sight isn’t logical.”  Ben blinked, and more tears overflowed from his lashes and ran down onto Poe’s fingers.

“At first sight?” he whispered.  “Truly?”

“Yes.”  Poe startled himself by feeling a smile flicker over his mouth.  “The first time I saw you, I felt like I knew you.  I thought you were beautiful, and I couldn’t forget you.”  He stroked Ben’s cheeks with his thumbs, smearing away the tears that had finally ceased falling.  “I loved you then, Ben, and I love you now.  Love isn’t logical—and neither is God and His plans for us, not logical in a way that humans can understand.  So all the reasoning and evidence a man could offer can never be enough to make me change my. . . my narrow view of the world.”

“I’m sorry,” Ben breathed from between Poe’s hands.  “I shouldn’t have said that—”

“But it’s true,” Poe admitted.  He looked up into Ben’s face and felt such love for him, it nearly overwhelmed him.  “My worldview _is_ narrow, and it will take more than logic to change that.  Maybe _that_ is why God has brought us together.”  He curled his fingertips under Ben’s jaw and held it as he leaned up to kiss Ben’s lips.  Ben’s hands clenched over Poe’s shoulders and held him close.

“I love you, Poe,” Ben whispered into his mouth, “and I’ll fight for you with whatever it takes.  I’ll fight to keep you at my side, as long as you want to be here.”

“I do.  Ben, I _do_.”  Poe dropped his arms to Ben’s neck and hugged it, sinking into Ben’s embrace as Ben slid his own arms around Poe.  He mumbled against the larger man’s chest, “And I believe in your dreams— _our_ dreams, even if I can only remember them in glimpses.  I knew you, I _loved_ you before we ever met, and because of that, I believe.  I must.”

Ben pressed his lips to Poe’s ear and murmured, “Then we’ll make those dreams come true, Poe.  God has plans of peace and hope for His people, and we’ll find both together.”

\--

To be continued


	13. Chapter 13

Poe and Ben spent most of the morning together, wandering the Solo/Organa property and talking—though not of witchcraft or of dreams.  Han Solo had disappeared again after breakfast, taking leave of Poe and muttering something to his wife about going hunting with “Chewie.”  (Ben later explained that this Chewie was Goodman Kanata, and Poe wondered about all the odd names he’d heard in the settlement.)  Poe almost forgot about having to take leave of Ben, but as noon neared, Ben began to fidget and grow anxious.  He ate very little of the midday meal and pushed away from the table as soon as Poe was finished with his.

“I should return home,” Ben murmured when Poe gave him a curious look.  Although Ben spoke softly, his mother overheard and turned to look at him.

“So soon?” she asked, and his eyes flattened into a glare.

“You know I must, Mother,” he growled without looking at her.  “This evening will bring the full moon, and I have things to do before it comes.”

“It would not hurt anything for you to be away—” she began, but he spoke over her, to Poe.

“Will you be able to reach your destination before nightfall?” Ben asked the hunter.

“Yes, easily,” Poe replied with some puzzlement.  “It’s only a few hours’ ride.”

Ben nodded.  “Good.  I don’t want you out after dark.”

“Why?” asked Poe, feeling one of his eyebrows lift in a querulous gesture before he could stop it.

“It will be safer,” was all Ben replied.  He got up from his chair and moved a few steps away from the table, no longer looking at Poe.  Poe frowned and glanced at Mistress Organa for an explanation, but she was still watching her son.

“Ben, if you insist on leaving, why don’t you ride one of our horses back instead of walking?” she suggested after a few seconds’ silence.

“Ride a horse?” Ben repeated with some disdain.  “I’m capable of walking—”

This time Mistress Organa was the one to interrupt, “Yes, but if you rode, Poe could ride beside you.  Then he can lead our horse back here on his way out of town, and still be home before sundown.”

Ben shifted to look at her, and she gazed back.  His expression was startled, hers steady, but then something remarkable happened: Ben looked grateful that his mother had offered a chance for him to spend a little more time with Poe, alone.

“All right,” he finally agreed.  “I’ll go out and saddle a horse, if you’ll be ready soon, Poe.”

“Yes, we can go now,” Poe said through his own surprise.  “I’ve packed up my belongings already, and I can collect them when I get back.”  He got up as well to follow Ben to his family’s barn, but he paused to bow slightly to Mistress Organa and tell her, “I’ll return soon to take my leave of you, mistress.”

“Of course, Poe,” she smiled.

Poe and Ben rode back to the cottage, side by side but speaking little.  Ben rode faster than Poe would have liked, almost trotting his mother’s horse at times, and unlike earlier that morning, Poe couldn’t forget their imminent parting.  When they reached their destination, Ben dismounted and stood holding the reins in one hand while looking up at Poe.  Poe almost expected Ben to just hand the reins over and turn away.

But then he murmured, “Poe, aren’t you going to come down here where I can kiss you goodbye?”

Poe managed a smile through the growing ache he felt in his face and throat, and he slid off of his own horse.  He and Ben both tied their reins to the fence, and Ben slipped his arms around Poe’s waist to pull him close.  Their lips met briefly, but then Ben drew him still closer so that Poe’s cheek was pressed to his rough coat, and Ben laid his own head against Poe’s hair.

“I love you,” he whispered into the dark curls.  “Poe, do you promise me you’ll return to me?  Do you _promise_?”

“Yes, of course,” Poe murmured.  “Ben, I can’t—I don’t think I could ever be happy again unless I’m with you.  I promise I’ll come back as soon as I can.”  He felt Ben nod, then the pressure of larger man’s mouth caressing his hair and temple.

“As soon as you can—but do not set out until All Hallows’ Day, all right?”

“Hmm?  Why?”  Poe lifted his head so he could look up at Ben.  “It’s only the day after tomorrow, and I’m hardly likely to finish my report and address the council all in one day—but why is it so important that I wait to depart?”

“Because Samhain—All Hallows’ Eve—is the most dangerous night of the year for those who oppose witches,” Ben told him with a solemn look on his pale face, a look Poe didn’t like to see.  “You know that, do you not?”

Poe frowned.  “Well, in theory, yes, it’s what we were taught.  But you really don’t believe I’d be in more danger than on any other day. . . ?”  Ben’s expression said clearly that he did.

“Stay indoors,” he instructed Poe, “both tonight when you arrive at your home, and tomorrow night as soon as the sun sets.  Whatever articles of faith you possess, keep them beside you, and. . . .”  He paused, frowned himself, then asked something quite unexpected: “You truly trust your superior—that Mistress Phasma—with your life?”

Poe stared up at him but nodded.  “Yes.  She is brave and—and pure, and in all honesty, a better fighter than I am.”

“Then if you can, stay with her tonight, but especially tomorrow night,” said Ben.

“Ben, what _is_ this?” Poe demanded.  “Why do you think I am in such danger that I need protection, even back at the council?”

Ben dropped his gaze and muttered, “Because of me.”  Poe drew in his breath sharply, but before he could speak, Ben reassured him, “You do not need protection _from_ me, well-beloved, never think that.  But I have many enemies.  I’m sure you’ve realized that, just in the time you’ve been here.  If any of them have even the faintest idea of what you mean to me. . . .”  His deep voice trailed off, and he took his hand from Poe’s waist to stroke the side of his face as their eyes met once more.

“You think they would try to harm _me_ because it would hurt _you_?” Poe whispered, and Ben nodded.

“All magic, Light and Dark, is strengthened at every full moon,” he said, “but it is strongest at the four cross-quarter days—Samhain, Imbolc, Beltane, and Lammas.  Beltane is the festival of the Light, but Samhain is the festival of the Dark. . . so those who wield Dark magic are the strongest then.  That is why you must be careful, and why you should stay away from here until it is past.”

Poe’s eyes searched Ben’s face before he whispered from a mouth grown suddenly dry, “These enemies. . . they aren’t really the townspeople are they, or even the witch hunters?  You believe that it’s other witches who wish you harm.  The Dark witches.”

“Yes,” said Ben.

His conviction frightened Poe, who had never believed in witches or magic at all, neither Light nor Dark nor anything in between.  He told himself that he still didn’t believe in any of it now, either, because he didn’t want it to be true; he didn’t want Ben to be a witch nor to be endangered by other witches.

_But what if it **is** true?_ Poe asked himself.  _What if witches exist and they try to hurt me?  What if they try to hurt **him**?_

Perhaps seeing some of Poe’s fears on his face, Ben gave him a faint smile and murmured, “Do not worry, my dove, you will be safe back at the council, and I will be safe enough here.  I won’t be venturing out tomorrow night either, and this place is well-protected.”  Poe turned to give the humble cottage a skeptical look.  It was no defensive stronghold, but maybe Ben spoke of protection in the form of spells or—

Poe scolded himself, _He’s going to have me really believing all of this if I’m not more careful._

“All right,” he said aloud as he looked back up at his lover.  “Just. . . do take care of yourself, please.”

“I will.”  Ben smiled more warmly and bent his head to kiss Poe again, deeper this time.  Poe put a hand up to run his fingers through the strands of hair that fell over Ben’s ear.  He was sorry that he wore gloves and could not feel its silkiness one last time, but then he had an idea.

“Ben,” Poe whispered when they broke the kiss, “may I have a lock of your hair to take with me?”  At Ben’s surprised, almost amused expression, Poe flushed and went on, “I-I know it’s a bit silly, but. . . I don’t have anything of yours, and I’d like _something_.”

“Of course you may,” Ben said, “on the condition that you give me a lock of yours, too.”  He wrapped a curl around one of his own gloved fingers and tugged it playfully.

“All right,” Poe laughed.

Ben took his hand and led him to the cottage door, saying over his shoulder, “Come in so I can get some thread to tie them—that will make it easier.”

After Ben had bound a lock of his hair with red thread, Poe sliced it off with Ben’s knife; then he tied more thread on one of his own curls for Ben to cut.  This done, Poe looked at the little bundle of dark brown, almost black strands of his lover’s hair before tucking it into his vest.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“ _I_ should thank _you_ ,” returned Ben.  “Your gift to me is far more precious.”  He brought Poe’s shorn curl to his lips and kissed it, then placed it carefully on the little shelf that hung on his wall.  The ache in Poe’s throat returned in full force, and when Ben turned back to him, Poe pressed against him and hid his face in Ben’s shoulder so the larger man wouldn’t see that he was near tears.

_I’ll see him again very soon,_ Poe insisted silently as Ben held him, moving his large, strong hands over Poe’s back in slow circles.

“You should go,” Ben said after a moment.  “You have a long ride ahead of you.”  Poe nodded and tilted his head up to look up into Ben’s eyes one last time.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“And I love you.”  Ben bent his head and kissed Poe a final time.  His tongue caressed Poe’s, then they drew apart.  Ben touched his cheek and said, “Goodbye, my well-beloved.”

“Goodbye,” said Poe.  He had to turn away quickly to hide the tears that rose to his eyes, and he knew he would likely break down if he so much as glanced at Ben again.  Poe left the cottage without looking back.

\--

After Poe closed the door behind him, Ben went to the window and peeked out past the curtains to watch the hunter untie the horses, mount his own, and ride away leading Leia’s horse beside him.  Once Poe was out of sight, Ben went to his bedroom, where the cat was lying on his bed.  It looked at him and meowed loudly.

“I’m sorry,” Ben said testily.  He glared at the animal and turned to the wall, where he removed the board concealing the hiding place for his books.  “I got him to leave as quickly as I could.”

The cat hissed, then, when Ben ignored it, spat.  Ben rolled his eyes and took out his most valuable—and most dangerous—book, the _Necronomicon_.  He replaced the board before carrying the book out into the main room of his home, where he laid it on the table.  The cat jumped down from the bed and followed Ben, then leapt up onto the table and sat down.  It batted at the book with one paw and hissed again.

“It is our last resort,” Ben muttered.  “We’ve tried everything else, you know that.”  The cat mewed and stared at him with its wide green eyes.

Ben snapped, “I am _not_ going to summon an eldritch abomination.  I’ll be careful.”  He looked down at the cover of the ancient book, bound in what might or might not be human skin, then slowly unbuckled the strap holding it closed and opened the tome.  The text inside, printed on smooth vellum pages, was in Greek, translated from the original Arabic.  Ben’s dark eyes fell on the couplet written on the first page:

_That is not dead which can eternal lie.  
And with strange aeons even death may die._

For a brief moment, Ben wondered what Poe would think of that.  He could just imagine the horror and revulsion in those mahogany-colored eyes—and yet. . . .  _The same words could be written of Christ, and of the new Heaven and Earth promised in Revelation,_ Ben thought.  _There is so much that he does not understand—and may **never** understand._   Then he put the witch hunter out of his mind and lost himself instead in the forbidden knowledge of the ancient grimoire.  The cat lay down on the tabletop to wait.

\--

When he reached town, Poe stabled Mistress Organa’s horse and rubbed her down, then tied his gelding until he could retrieve his belongings from the house and take his leave of the mistress.  He didn’t expect that to take very long, but when she answered his knock upon the front door, Mistress Organa was frowning.

“Poe,” she muttered before he could speak, “Master Dooku is here, in the parlor.  He wishes to speak with you.”

“W-with me?” Poe stammered.

“Yes.  He came by and inquired for you just after you left, and when I said you were out, he asked to wait.”  Mistress Organa looked back over her shoulder, as if to be sure Dooku hadn’t materialized there behind her, then asked Poe, “Was Ben all right when you left him?”

“Yes, he was fine,” Poe assured her.  She nodded and stepped aside so he could come in, then latched the door behind him.  Poe followed her to the parlor where he saw Dooku sitting on the sofa Poe himself had used on his first visit, one booted ankle across his knee and his hands folded in his lap.  The older man’s bearded face looked stern but composed, yet he still made Poe feel uneasy.

_What could he want with me?_ the hunter wondered as he took a hesitant step into the room. _Does he want to challenge the tests I performed on Ben?_

Dooku looked up at the sound of Poe’s footfall.  He got to his own feet and gave Poe and Mistress Organa a tight smile and nod.

“Master Dameron,” he said.

“Master Dooku,” Poe murmured with a slight bow.  Dooku towered over him—he was even taller than Ben—and Poe felt more nervous than before.

“Mistress, if you’ll excuse us,” Dooku said to Mistress Organa, “I doubt my questions for Master Dameron will be of any interest to you.  I only wanted to inquire after an old acquaintance of mine, so I won’t ask you to remain with us.”  In other words, leave us alone.

“Yes, of course,” Mistress Organa muttered.  “Master Dameron, please come see me before you depart.”

“Certainly,” Poe agreed.  The mistress cast one more look at Dooku then withdrew from the parlor.  Dooku gestured at an unoccupied chair and sat once more on the sofa as if Poe was a visitor in _his_ home.  Nevertheless, Poe sat down as meekly as he could.

“Does Mistress Organa mean that you’ll be leaving us this afternoon?” Dooku asked.  His tone sounded affable enough, especially in contrast with his brusque attitude of the previous day.

“Yes, my tests are complete, after all.  I have no reason to remain,” Poe said.  It pained him to speak so, but he was ever conscious of the need to hide his relationship with Ben.

“Then I am glad I found you in time to speak with you first,” said Dooku.  “As I told Mistress Organa, I wished to ask you about a man I once knew.  The last I heard, he had become a witch hunter, and I wondered if you were acquainted with him.”  When Poe nodded, Dooku went on, “He went only by the name of Grievous.”

“Oh. . . yes, I know of him,” Poe replied.  He hesitated before saying anything further, unsure of how freely he should speak.  When Dooku lifted his dark eyebrows slightly, Poe reluctantly went on, “He asked to join the hunters. . . two or three years ago, perhaps?  He passed his trial period and was accepted by the council, but I’ve only seen him a few times.”

Dooku mused, “I see.  Have you heard any news of how he’s getting on?”  He apparently read some of Poe’s bemusement on the hunter’s face, for he explained, “Grievous is not from this area, but he passed through this settlement some years ago and stayed here a short while.  He was an interesting man, and I suppose you could say that he and I became friends.  I was hoping to hear good news of him.”

Poe had a hard time imagining either Dooku or Grievous with friends, but he tried to conceal that fact.

“Master Grievous is doing well, as far as I know,” Poe told the older man.  “I have heard that he’s very skilled in combat and has protected other hunters from danger a number of times.  The Hunters’ Council values his assistance.”  Poe did not mention one of the other rumors he’d heard: that Grievous also had a habit of running away when outmatched in a fight.  His cowardice had not yet brought the other hunters any harm, but it disgusted Poe and he feared that Grievous might still cause trouble for the council.  His irascible and arrogant demeanor hadn’t endeared him to Poe either, the few times they had met.

“That is good to hear,” Dooku was saying, unaware of Poe’s hidden feelings.  “Please give him my regards if you see him upon your return.”

“Yes, of course.”  Poe fidgeted in his chair; he remembered Ben’s insistence that Poe reach his destination by nightfall, and that grew more difficult to accomplish with each passing moment.  Yet Poe didn’t know how to excuse himself without offending Dooku, something he was loath to do to an elder of the settlement.  _Especially one who holds so much power over Ben,_ Poe thought.

To Poe’s dismay, Dooku continued, “I did wish to discuss one other thing with you, Master Dameron.”

Stifling a sigh, Poe asked, “Yes, master?”  Dooku’s answer startled him.

“I must apologize for my behavior yesterday during Master Organa’s testing,” said the older man.  “I fear I gave you the impression that I am a cruel man, or that I hold some animosity toward your friend.”

“My—my friend?”  Poe felt heat rise to his cheeks, and he hardly noticed the other things Dooku said.

“You and Ben have become friends, have you not?” Dooku prompted.  He smiled again, faintly but with what appeared to be sincerity, and Poe wondered at his use of Ben’s first name.  _He has every right to do that,_ Poe reminded himself, _since he’s so old, but still. . . ._

“I. . . I suppose we have,” Poe stammered, deliberately echoing the way Dooku had spoken of his relationship with Grievous so that the elder could make no inferences that Poe’s feelings for Ben went beyond friendship.

“I thought as much, since Mistress Organa told me you were a guest here in their home last night,” Dooku said.  Poe’s face grew even warmer.  The elder went on, “So I did not want you to believe I have any ill intentions toward Ben.  But I’m sure you can understand that my position is a delicate one.  It would be improper for me to show any favor.”

“Of course,” muttered Poe, although he thought that Dooku had been doing quite the opposite.  Then he wondered, _Is he implying that he thinks **I** showed Ben favor?_   Even studying Dooku’s face, Poe couldn’t be sure.

Neither could Poe escape.  Dooku began asking him more questions, these about Poe’s training and methods of witch-hunting: at what age had Poe become a hunter, how many witches had he investigated, which tests did he think were most accurate.  While choosing his answers carefully so as to conceal the fact that he didn’t even believe in witchcraft, Poe tried to determine the motives behind Dooku’s questions.  _Is he judging me as a hunter?  Just genuinely curious about it?  Or. . . is he deliberately delaying me from leaving?_ Poe asked himself.  The last question seemed the least likely, yet it caused Poe to remember Ben’s warning: _I have many enemies.  You must be careful, you should stay away from here until Samhain is past._   Poe suppressed a shiver but reminded himself that Ben’s enemies were other so-called witches, not the people of the settlement.  Not someone like Master Dooku.

Then, finally, Dooku stopped his interrogation around mid-afternoon.  He looked up at the fine old clock Mistress Organa kept on her mantle and exclaimed as if he really had been unaware of how much time had passed.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, Master Dameron,” the elder said.  “I did not mean to keep you so long.  When you get to be as old as I, you’ll realize how quickly time can pass by with you unaware.”

“Please, think nothing of it,” Poe said with a reassuring tone he had to fake.  “But yes, I should be on my way back to the council.”  Finally able to excuse himself, he got to his feet and nodded to the older man.  “I will give Master Grievous your regards when I next see him.”

Dooku stood as well and said, “Thank you, Master Dameron.  May God be with you on your journey.”

Mistress Organa rejoined them in the hallway outside the parlor, having apparently been listening from another room for Dooku’s departure.  After seeing the elder out, she turned back to Poe with a sigh and a strained look on her face.

“I’m sorry, Poe,” she told him.  “If I had known he wanted to speak with you at such length, I would have lied and said you’d already departed for home when he came by.”

“I would not want you to lie for my sake,” murmured Poe, although he guiltily wished she’d done just that.  “But now I must go, quickly if I am to reach home by sundown as Ben wishes.”  He went upstairs to retrieve his belongings, and paused on his way back out to lay a hand against the closed door to Ben’s room, remembering the brief hours they’d spent together there.  Poe took out his mother’s Bible then and removed the lock of Ben’s hair from his vest pocket to place it between the book’s pages instead.

_My two most treasured possessions together,_ Poe thought, and did not feel guilty for it.  Instead, it seemed only right.

When he returned to where she waited at the front door, Mistress Organa surprised Poe by embracing him.  He started but then embraced her in return.  The gesture was comforting, if a little embarrassing, because it brought back Poe’s few memories of hugging his mother.  He hadn’t been held by another woman since her death.

“Take care, Poe,” Mistress Organa said after she released him, “both on the road and at your destination.  May God protect you and bring you back to us soon.”  Poe thanked her and bid her farewell with sorrow in his heart.

The day had been cloudy to begin with, and it grew steadily darker as Poe rode away from town.  The hunter’s mind kept drifting away from his ride and the reports he’d have to make to the council; instead, he could think only of Ben and how much Poe longed to be back with him.

_Could what he said about our shared dreams be true,_ Poe wondered, _and not just some delusion or wishful thinking of his?_   It seemed so unlikely. . . and yet Poe remembered what had felt so like a memory of lying beside Ben, as if they really had met before in a dream.  _What if it **is** true?  Witches are said to be able to communicate through dreams—could there be something evil in it?_

Poe reined in his horse at this distressing thought and sat frowning as he pondered it.  He had been riding no more than an hour, but he knew that already the sun must be nearing the horizon past the cover of clouds blanketing the sky.

_I will not reach the council before nightfall,_ Poe realized.  _But what of it?  I’m armed, and should anything attack me, I’ve defended myself in fights often enough before._

Then some traitorous part of him whispered, _But not fights against dark witches.  And what if they **do** exist?  What else could those sinful dreams mean, but that magic is real, and you’ve succumbed to it?  To magic and to the sin of Sodom—_

“It isn’t the same thing!” Poe grumbled aloud, startling his horse so that it shied on the deserted road where they had stopped.  “There was no love in Sodom, and anyhow, we haven’t—haven’t done _that_.”

_Not yet,_ his inner traitor—or maybe his conscience—countered.  _Not in this world. . . but what about in your dreams?  Has he used some dark magic to sodomize you in your dreams where—how did he put it?—where you weren’t ashamed of it because it was a dream and not reality?_

Poe growled, “No!” to silence the voice in his mind, then thought at it, _I would remember something like that—and anyhow, he isn’t a witch!  Witches.  Aren’t.  Real._   And Poe thought of the many dreams related by the Bible, how often God or His messengers had spoken through them.

_He gave Daniel visions,_ Poe remembered, _Daniel who was beloved of another man.  And God and His angels appeared to the magi and to Joseph to warn them of Herod, to Pilate’s wife and to Paul.  If Ben and I did share our dreams, it is God’s will, not the work of witches._

That realization made Poe feel lighter, made him feel, in fact, a sense of relief that soaked through his whole body.  Maybe Ben was right and the Lord _had_ destined them for one another.  Maybe Poe could be with him without fear or guilt.

_I want to be with him **now,**_ thought Poe.   _I can’t reach home before dark, but I can just make it back to him if I hurry.  I can do what he asked me to before, write my report and send it to Mistress Phasma by a messenger._

That argumentative part of Poe protested, but now its voice was small, and Poe could ignore it.  He wheeled his horse about and started back toward the town at a near gallop.  When he reached it, less than an hour later, he skirted the small settlement to avoid seeing anyone who might question his return—particularly Ben’s mother or Master Dooku—and headed for Ben’s cottage.

Poe allowed his tired horse to return to a walk for that last mile, and the sun had set by the time Poe dismounted and tied the animal to the fence as he had early that afternoon.  Although he saw no signs of danger anywhere about, Poe felt apprehensive after Ben’s insistence that he not be out after dark.  He hurried to the door and knocked on it with the heel of his hand, then called Ben’s name.

Poe’s heart was pounding with excitement, but it nearly stopped when the door opened, because the man who opened it was not Ben.

He was almost as tall but much slighter, with rumpled, coppery red hair and green eyes that pierced Poe to his core.  The clothes he wore were clean, but plain and thread-bare, the material of his white shirt so thin, Poe could see the darker flesh of his nipples through it.  This sight would normally have embarrassed Poe to no end, but now it hardly registered.

_Who are you?_ Poe thought of saying, but he could no more speak than if he were born mute.  Yet the other man knew _him_.

“Master Dameron—what are _you_ doing here?” he asked in a tone of such disdain and scorn, Poe’s face burned with greater shame than he’d felt even before Master Dooku.

“I—” Poe managed to get out.  “I came to—”  But then he fell silent once more, for how could he say that he’d come to tell Ben he’d accepted their shared destiny, that he believed in their dreams and was sure now that God had ordained they be together?  How could he say those things to another man—a very handsome, if a bit frazzled and scrawny, other man who was standing in the doorway of Ben’s house and asking what right Poe had to be there?

_This is why Ben was in such a hurry to come back here this morning,_ Poe realized, _and why he insisted that I leave in time to get home before dark.  This is why he told me to stay away until the day after tomorrow.  His lover was coming, and he wanted to get rid of me._   Poe’s eyes ached as if someone were squeezing his temples in a vise, and he feared he would begin to weep right there in front of the stranger

Then he heard Ben’s voice from within the cottage: “Why the devil do you have the door standing open?  It’s cold!”

At the sound of that deep, familiar voice, Poe was certain he was going to burst into tears.

“I heard a knock,” the redheaded man said, turning his head to pitch his voice back over his shoulder but never taking his eyes off Poe.

“ _What?_ ” came Ben’s cry.  “And you just opened—who is it?”  He appeared in the shadows just behind the strange man, pale face hovering over the redhead’s bony shoulder.

“Poe!” Ben hissed in utter incomprehension, and Poe’s anguish turned to fury for no reason other than that Ben had succeeded in tricking him so easily.

“I believed you,” Poe croaked in a voice at first hoarse from suppressed tears but which quickly regained its strength.  “I believed in your stories about—about dreams and destiny and God’s will for us.  I believed in _you_.”  Ben was still staring at him, full lips slightly parted in a rather idiotic way, as if Poe were speaking in tongues.  Then he shook himself and looked at the other man who stood between them.

“Poe, you—you think—” Ben said.  Then he stopped speaking and laughed.

Now Poe wanted simultaneously to scream at him and to sob, and he turned away to keep himself from doing either.  Instead, he focused his efforts on getting to his horse, getting on it, and getting away from there at a full gallop before he humiliated himself any further.

The infuriatingly smug and _correct_ voice inside him taunted, _He’s laughing at you.  He’s laughing at how naïve and foolish you were to believe he loved you, to believe that you were anything more than a means for him to escape persecution, and maybe to indulge his perverted desires for other men._   Over its mockery, Poe hardly heard Ben gasp then cry out his name.

“Poe, wait!”  The cry was followed by a scuffle and an indignant squawking sound from the redheaded man as Ben shoved him aside and barreled past him after Poe.  Poe did hear that, but he ignored Ben and untied his horse’s reins with his gloved fingers fumbling over the knots.  He held the reins bunched in his left hand as he grasped his saddle and got his left foot into the stirrup, but then Ben’s arms encircled him from behind and hauled him back from the horse.  The animal snorted when his head was jerked aside by Poe’s hold on the reins.

“Let me go!” Poe snarled without unclenching his teeth, but Ben held him fast.

Ben finished the thought he began in the doorway: “Poe, you really think that he’s—that I’d choose him over you?”

“Let me _go_.”  Poe struggled in the larger man’s grip.

“No, not until you stop trying to run away!”

“Why _shouldn’t_ I run?” Poe demanded.  He tried to turn his head enough to glare up at Ben but couldn’t quite manage.  “And what were you going to do when I came back, anyway?  Did you even think ahead that far?  Or were you going to keep on hiding him so you could—could fuck him whenever you could get rid of me?”

“Poe!” Ben gasped, probably more stunned by Poe’s language than by the meaning of what he’d said.  Then he clamped his upper arms down hard over Poe’s and pressed his mouth to the smaller man’s ear, forcing Poe to hear him.  “Poe, listen to me.  I wasn’t hiding him—”

“ _Like hell!_ ” Poe bellowed.

Ben went right on arguing, “You’ve seen him!  You’ve _petted_ him!”

Poe stopped struggling and stared, unseeing, over his horse’s back at the fields which lay out beyond the cottage.  _Maybe he wasn’t trying to deceive me,_ Poe thought. _Maybe he’s just insane._

“What?” Poe asked as calmly as he could, between his persisting anger and his fear that he was being clasped by a madman.  “I’ve. . . petted him?”

“Yes,” said Ben, and his next words did little to reassure Poe of his sanity.  “He’s my cat.”

\--

To be continued


	14. Chapter 14

Poe’s body had felt stiff and resistant in Kylo’s arms, but now it relaxed—in fact, Poe almost felt as if he’d collapse without Kylo to support him.  Kylo felt weak too, from relief as well as horror at how close he had come to losing Poe forever.

_If he’d managed to get on the horse, I never would have caught him!_ Kylo thought.

“Your cat,” Poe said then in a flat tone.

“Yes,” Kylo insisted.  “Please, come inside, and I will explain everything.”  When Poe didn’t move, Kylo said more urgently, “ _Please_ , Poe.  You’ll have to spend the night now that the sun is set.  It won’t be safe for you outside.”

“My horse,” Poe protested dully.  “I don’t want him to stay outside all night either.”

“There is a shelter on the back wall of the house, where I store firewood,” Kylo told him.  “You can tie him there for the night.”

When Poe murmured, “All right,” Kylo let him go but stayed poised to grab for him again if Poe seemed about to flee.  However, the hunter only took a few steps toward the side of the cottage, leading the horse after him.  Then he paused and looked back over his shoulder at Kylo to whisper, “Come with me?”  The whisper had a pleading tone, but his frightened eyes pled even more eloquently.

Kylo nodded, then said to the redheaded man still standing in his doorway, “I’ll be back in a moment, Hux.”  Hux nodded as well and retreated inside.

“His name is Hux?” Poe mumbled as they led the horse around the back of Kylo’s small house.

“Yes,” Kylo said, “his family name.  I’ve always called him just by that.  He took his father’s name despite the circumstances of his birth.”

“Oh.”  Then Poe said, more loudly, “Oh, he’s—he’s your friend, the one who disappeared?”

“Yes,” Kylo said again.  Poe had stopped with the horse inside the lean-to behind Kylo’s cottage, beside the firewood, and he watched Kylo with an odd expression.  It looked like a mixture of relief and jealousy.  Kylo didn’t want to take the time to explain there, out in the cold and especially out under the full moon.  When he didn’t continue, Poe frowned and turned away to stroke his horse’s neck.

“Do you have any rope?” he muttered to Kylo.  “I’d like to take his bridle off for the night.”  Kylo gave him some—he’d woven it himself the winter before, just to pass the time—and Poe deftly looped it into a makeshift halter which he slipped over the horse’s head after removing the bridle.  Poe tied the gelding to one of the studs supporting the side of the lean-to, then began to take off the saddle and the bags he had strapped to it.  Poe spoke to the horse as he worked, perhaps to calm him or perhaps out of the habit of staving off loneliness on many long journeys.

“I suppose you’ll be warm enough here,” he said as he set the saddle across a cord of wood then rubbed the horse down as best he could with the saddle blanket.  Kylo thought the horse would be perfectly fine, considering that the lean-to was walled in on its two sides and only open on the back.  Besides, while it was unseasonably cold, it was not yet so bitter as a winter’s night.

_I’ll have to make this into a proper stall soon, though,_ Kylo mused without being consciously aware of where his thoughts were going.  _Unless Poe wants to board his horse in Mother’s barn during the winter—but I doubt it.  He’ll want the animal here with him._   Kylo realized then that he was making plans for a coming life with Poe, and he blushed.  _As if he really plans to stay with me. . . as if Hux hasn’t changed things_.  Kylo was terrified that he had.

Poe was still talking to the gelding, murmuring affectionately, “I’m sorry I don’t have a warmer blanket, Bey, but you’re a big tough horse, aren’t you?”  He chuckled, the horse being on the small side, and Kylo found himself smiling as well.

“Is that his name?  Bey?” he asked.  Poe started as if he hadn’t realized Kylo could overhear; then he cast a rather sheepish smile over his shoulder.

“Yes, but only part of it.”

“Oh?”  Kylo raised an eyebrow.  “Well, what’s the rest?  You never properly introduced us.”  Poe blinked, then broke into a full grin that sent warm rivulets of affection (and some relief) through Kylo’s veins.

Poe turned to face him and announced with exaggerated dignity, “May I present Bartholomew Bey Dameron.  I’d call him Master Bartholomew, but it might go to his head.”

“Ah, I’m charmed, Goodman Bartholomew,” Kylo said as he reached out to stroke Bey’s nose.  “Or. . . should I say ‘Goodhorse’?”  Poe snorted then broke out into full laughter.

“Ben, you’re ridiculous,” he chuckled.  He smoothed the saddle blanket over Bey’s back then moved to Kylo’s side, close enough so that their arms touched.  Kylo looked down at him, and Poe looked back up.  His face now held no jealousy, only affection, and he flushed when Kylo’s eyes met his.

Pretending not to notice, Kylo asked, “So why such an elegant name for a horse?  Not that he isn’t a very fine horse, but. . . .”  Poe shrugged and smiled.

“Bey was my mother’s family name, before she married my father.  I’ll never have a child to name for her, so my horse has to do.  As for Bartholomew, I just liked the name.  It amuses me to have a horse with a finer name than I have.”

“I think Poe is a very fine name,” said Kylo, smiling as well, but then his expression softened, and he asked gently, “You knew you would never have a child?”  Poe flushed all over again but nodded.

“Yes, I knew.  Even before—even before I met you.”  He looked down at the straw-littered ground and mumbled, “I never wanted to marry a woman, never even wanted to make love to one.  I decided I would remain celibate for life, devoting myself to the work God called me to do.  But then. . . but then I found you.”

“Poe—” Kylo began, not even sure what he would say, but then Poe suddenly pressed up against him and clung to him, face against the front of his cloak.

“Ben, please—I’m sorry I got angry at you.  I’m sorry I mistrusted you.  I just _don’t understand_.”

“Poe, I swear to you, I will never want another,” Kylo promised, adding silently, _And certainly not Hux!_   He held Poe in his arms and laid his cheek against the smaller man’s hair.  The cold from it seeped into Kylo’s skin then quickly dissipated into warmth.  Kylo went on, “My heart has always belonged to you and always will, please believe that.  And please, come inside with me where you’ll be warm, and let me tell you how this thing happened.”

“All right,” Poe whispered.  He tilted his head up to look at Kylo’s face again, and the longing in his eyes led the witch to bend down to kiss his hunter.  Poe lifted his gloved hands to clutch Kylo’s hair as they kissed, and Kylo hated to pull away, even to go back inside where it was warm.

When they entered the cottage, Kylo carrying Poe’s belongings for him, Hux was sitting hunched over Kylo’s table, where the Necronomicon still lay open beside one of Kylo’s journals.  The redheaded man jumped up when he saw them.

“I’m going outside,” he muttered.  He often spent his single monthly night of freedom out of doors, and tonight especially, Kylo was glad to be shut of Hux so he could be alone with Poe.  Still, there were practical matters to consider first.

“Not without a coat,” Kylo told him, “and shoes, for God’s sake.”  Hux stared at him, then murmured, “Oh,” and turned to the chest where Kylo kept his own clothes and what little there was of Hux’s.  As Hux was putting on the old shoes he’d had for the past eleven years—shoes which still looked nearly new, considering how little wear they got—Kylo turned back to Poe.

“He forgets he doesn’t have fur when he’s human,” Kylo explained.

Poe stared at him too, and murmured an, “Oh,” of his own.  When Hux had dressed in his coat and slunk out, Kylo took Poe’s hand and led him to sit at the table.  As he slipped the hunter’s cloak from his shoulders, Poe looked around the room.

“He. . . he really was—is the cat,” he stammered.  “At least, I don’t see it here now.  H-how. . . .”

Kylo replied, “Magic,” but at the same time, Poe answered his own question in a weary tone: “Let me guess.  You are a witch.”

“Correct,” said Kylo.  He removed his own coat and gloves then sat down in the other wobbly chair, which he had moved to rest beside Poe’s.  Kylo looked down at the hunter’s small, brown hands resting on the tabletop, then covered one with his own.

“Hux was my friend—or at least the closest thing I had to a friend—but we bickered, often.  Eleven years ago, when we were hardly more than boys, we were fighting about the coven in the heart of the forest.”  Kylo kept his eyes turned down to his fingers laced through Poe’s, and his thumb twitched, anticipating the moment when Poe would withdraw his hand.  “Hux was the only person outside of my family who knew what I was.  I told Hux I wanted to go to the coven and ask the powerful Dark witches to teach me.  Hux called me a fool and said that if those witches weren’t the death of me, they would be my downfall.  We got in a fight, the worst fight we’d ever had, and. . . .”

Kylo stopped and inhaled a deep breath, embarrassed to admit it to Poe, then murmured, “And I cursed him—I mean it literally, I put a real curse on him.  I wanted to show him how strong my magic was, that it would be worth seeking out the training of the elder witches.”

“You. . . you’re telling me you turned him into a _cat_?” Poe stammered.  “On _purpose_?”  His hand quivered beneath Kylo’s, yet Poe did not withdraw it.  Kylo decided to take that as a good sign.

“Yes,” Kylo confessed.  “I did not mean for it to last, though—if that makes any difference at all.  I thought I knew how to reverse the spell, but. . . but I was wrong.”  Telling the story for the first time in years was harder than Kylo had thought it would be; he released Poe’s hand himself and rested his forehead in his own.  “I couldn’t make him human again.  Of course I couldn’t tell anyone what I’d done—my family knew about my abilities, but I was too ashamed to tell them about the mistake I’d made, and anyone else would have me condemned as a witch.  But soon enough, Hux was missed, and since I was his only friend and the townspeople already hated me. . . they believed I had killed him.”  Kylo groaned, “He was very much alive and perfectly well—but he wasn’t human anymore!”

Poe didn’t speak for a long time, and Kylo didn’t dare to raise his head and look at him.  Then, finally, Poe said, “And that is when you went to the coven?”

Kylo nodded his head in his hands.  “Yes.  I took Hux with me, hoping I could learn a spell there to save him.  But I did not—all I could do for him was to cast another spell on him, one that made him my familiar.  It offers him some protection and binds his life to mine so that he ages as a human would, not as a cat.  Otherwise, he’d be very old now.  I’ve kept searching for the right spell to restore him but have never found it.  Now I’ve come to our very last resort.”  He lifted his head and looked not at Poe, but at the book lying open on the table.

“Why is he human now, though?” Poe asked.  “Is. . . is it because of the moon?  Is that why you had to come back here tonight?”

“Yes.”  Kylo forced himself to look at Poe then, and a shaky sense of relief filled him to see that the hunter was looking at him with pity but not with disgust or anger.  “For whatever reason—I never have learned why—Hux regains his humanity with every full moon, from the time the sun sets until it rises the next morning.  Then he becomes a cat again for the next four weeks.”

“Ben, I’m. . . I’m sorry,” whispered Poe.  “Sorry for you both, and sorry that I misunderstood who he was.”

Kylo swallowed hard, then asked, “Poe, does that mean you believe me?  You believe what I’ve told you about Hux and about myself. . . that I truly am a witch?”

Poe dropped his mahogany eyes for a moment but lifted them back to Kylo’s gaze as he replied, “I believe that _you_ believe it—and I don’t know where your cat is, otherwise.  I want to believe you, Ben, but. . . but please try to understand, at the same time, I _don’t_ want to believe you.  I don’t want you to be a witch, because of what _I_ am.”

For the first time, Kylo truly understood Poe’s stubborn refusal to listen to his claims.  _It’s not that he really disbelieves me or thinks I’m trying to mislead him. . . it’s that he’s afraid.  Afraid of what it will mean for us when he finally accepts it._

“I understand, my dove,” Kylo murmured.  He took his hand from the table and touched Poe’s face; the smaller man pressed his cheek into Kylo’s cupped fingers.  “And I’m sorry too, that I can’t be what you wish me to be.”  Poe reached up to fold his fingers over Kylo’s hand, and he drew the palm to his lips and kissed it.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Hux before?” Poe mumbled against Kylo’s skin.  “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?  And is he why you told me to stay away, so I wouldn’t find out about him?”

“No, not at all,” Kylo tried to assure him.  “The full moon truly does heighten magical powers, and Samhain even more so.  With the two occurring so close together this year, you really would be safest far away from me until they’ve passed.  But now that you’re here, I’ll protect you, I promise.”  Poe pulled Kylo’s hand back down to the tabletop but kept clasping it as he watched the larger man’s face.

Kylo went on, “And as for Hux. . . you wouldn’t have believed me.”  Poe started to protest, but Kylo spoke over him, “You _still_ aren’t fully certain that that man out there was a cat less than an hour ago.  You _can’t_ say that you would have believed me if I had told you about him before tonight.”  Poe gave a heavy sigh and smiled a weak smile at the same time.

“No, you’re right.  I would not have believed you.”  Poe’s gaze moved from Kylo’s face to their hands, then over to the book that lay open on the table.  “That book is your last resort for curing him?”

Kylo nodded.  He used his free hand to close the book and show the hunter its strange leather cover with the Greek title Νεκρονομικον embossed upon it.

Kylo murmured, “It is one of the most powerful grimoires in existence.  It was written almost a thousand years ago by Abdul Alhazred, a man from Yemen who had attained knowledge of some of the darkest sources of magical power.  He called it _Al Azif,_ but the Dark witches of the West have traditionally consulted this Greek translation instead.”

As he spoke, Poe’s eyes widened, and his hand began to sweat in Kylo’s.  When Kylo finished, Poe rasped in a dry voice, “The _Al Azif_. . . .  Then that’s the—the _Necronomicon_?”  Kylo was surprised for an instant, but then he realized that if Poe had been well-educated as a witch hunter, he would have heard of the most notorious of occult texts.

“Yes, it is,” Kylo told him.  “It belonged to my grandfather, and he gave it to me shortly before I left for the coven.”  Poe had drawn back slightly from the table, and now he pulled his hand free of Kylo’s and clutched it in his lap.  That hurt, but Kylo tried to suppress it.  He tried to reassure Poe, “I’m only searching for a spell that might restore Hux’s humanity—I know better than to study the _Necronomicon_ extensively.  The only parts I’ve read are the histories.”

“Histories?”  Poe eyed the book with skepticism.

“Yes, Alhazred conducted extensive research on the—well, I suppose you would understand them as false gods.”  Kylo opened the _Necronomicon_ to a random page in the section containing Alhazred’s descriptions and praise of the Old Ones, and he read haltingly, translating from the Greek as he spoke: “‘The wind gibbers with Their voices, and the earth mutters with Their consciousness.  They bend the forest and crush the city, yet may not forest or city behold the hand that smites.  Kadath in the cold waste hath known Them, and what man knows Kadath?  The ice desert of the South—’”

“ _Stop!_ ” Poe hissed.  He had further drawn up into himself and had both arms wrapped across his chest with his face turned away.  “It is blasphemous to read of those false gods.”

“But even the Bible speaks of them,” Kylo argued, “the Philistines and their worship of Dagon—”

“The Bible,” Poe snapped back, “speaks of Dagon’s graven image falling and breaking before the Ark of the Covenant!  Not of—of him smiting and crushing and going to Kadath, wherever the devil _that_ is!  That horrid book should be destroyed.”

Kylo bristled and closed the book, then spread his hands over its over as if to protect it from Poe, despite his feeling that he should more properly protect Poe from the book.  _But it is harmless to him, because he cannot read it,_ Kylo thought, _and if he should take it up and—and throw it in the fire or something, what a priceless item he would destroy!_   He hadn’t even finished searching it for a cure for Hux, but that would have to wait now that Poe was there.  Kylo sighed and got up from his chair, scooping up the _Necronomicon_ to carry back to his bedroom.

“I’ll put it away,” he said over his shoulder.  Poe did not reply, and Kylo scowled as he unsealed the hiding place in his wall and concealed the book inside.  When he returned to the front room, he found Poe flipping through the leather-bound journal in which Kylo had been taking notes with a charcoal pencil.  Poe paused over a page near the front.

“Is this. . . is this me?” he murmured.  Kylo moved forward to look over his shoulder at the page.  It was partially filled with notations Kylo had made shortly after moving to the cottage.  However, Kylo had apparently gotten distracted, for half-way down the page, the notations stopped, and a sketch of a beautiful, dark-haired man occupied the remaining space.

Kylo’s face warmed, but he said, “Yes.  I’ve, um, I’ve always enjoyed drawing when I have free time.”

“But. . . .”  Poe’s finger drifted up the edge of the page to the date Ben had scrawled at the top.  “But you drew this last winter, before. . . .”  His voice grew faint.  “Before we ever met.”

“Yes,” said Kylo, for he had drawn Poe many times from memory, trying to capture the image of the lover he knew in his dreams.  Poe closed the journal quickly, as if it were as deadly as the _Necronomicon_.  Kylo took it up and set it aside on the shelf, then moved to the fireplace where a kettle hung.

“Have you eaten anything since noon?” he asked Poe.  “There is some soup leftover from what Hux and I had for dinner.”

“No, I haven’t eaten.  I’d like some if you’re sure you two have had enough.”  Poe’s politeness couldn’t disguise the eagerness in his voice, and Kylo smiled.

“There is plenty,” he assured the hunter.  Kylo gave Poe his meal in the same tin bowl he had used himself, along with some tea.  As Poe ate, Kylo opened the front door and peered outside to check on Hux, whom he saw sitting under a tree some distance from the cottage, staring up at the full moon.

“Why does he stay with you?” Poe asked suddenly.  Kylo started, almost feeling guilty though he wasn’t sure why, and withdrew back into the cottage.  Poe continued, “Is it because he’s your familiar, so he has to?”

“That is part of it,” Kylo sighed.  He returned to the table and sat down beside Poe.  “He _could_ separate himself from me if he chose, the familiar spell doesn’t force him to stay near me.  But its ability to protect him from harm lessens the more distance there is between us.  If he were to go off on his own, he would be like an ordinary cat—a very old ordinary cat who wouldn’t live for long.  Besides, here he has someone to provide him with food and shelter. . . and clothing when he turns human every few weeks.”  Kylo gave a mirthless chuckle as he thought of Hux trying to eke out an existence as a plain, everyday tom cat somewhere.

“But doesn’t he hate you for what you did to him?” Poe blurted out.  Kylo cringed and looked at the hunter, who bit his lip in apology.  “I’m—I’m sorry, but. . . but surely he resents it?”

“Of course he resents it,” Kylo muttered.  “He was furious with me, for a very long time.  Perhaps he won’t ever truly forgive me, but we’ve managed to establish what you could call a working relationship.  Hux assists me where he can, and I take care of him.  And I still haven’t lost hope that I may find the spell to free him, so he stays close.”

Poe muttered, “Oh,” and fell silent as he finished his meal.  When he was through, Kylo cleared away the dishes and wiped them; then he stood looking down at Poe and thinking.

“At dawn, Hux will become a cat again,” Kylo murmured.  “If you see it happen, then you will have to believe in my magic.”

Poe frowned but mumbled, “I suppose I will.”  The irony of it struck Kylo, that a man of such great faith in God, a man who fixed his eyes on the things unseen, had to have visual proof to believe in magic.  But dawn would be a long time in coming, and Kylo pushed the thought away.

“We should rest,” he told Poe, returning to the hunter’s side and resting a hand on his shoulder.  Poe looked up at him; his face softened, and he put his hand over Kylo’s.

“In—in your bed?” whispered Poe.

“Yes, or at least _you_ should rest there.  If you wish, I can sleep elsewhere.”  “Elsewhere” would mean on the floor before the fireplace, but Kylo didn’t want to pressure Poe into sharing the bed.  However, Poe’s hand tightened over his, and the hunter smiled.

“No, I wish for you to sleep beside me,” Poe promised.

Kylo placed a screen before the fire then took Poe back into his bedroom and shut the door.  They undressed to their shirts, and Kylo situated Poe in the bed against the wall before climbing in himself.  The mattress was stuffed with straw topped by a layer of down, far less fine than the purely down bedding at Kylo’s mother’s house, and he feared Poe would be uncomfortable.  However, the smaller man looked pleased as he snuggled under the comforter with his head on a pillow.

“Your bed is very warm,” said Poe.  He smiled while Kylo lay down beside him and, after a moment’s hesitation, took Poe into his arms.

“Since the fireplace is in the other room, I try to make sure my bed is well-insulated,” Kylo chuckled, “but it’s far warmer than before, now that you are here with me.”  Poe laid his head against Kylo’s chest and nodded.

“I never knew how warm I could feel until you first held me,” he whispered.  “I love you, Ben, with all my soul.”

Kylo kissed the curl of hair falling over Poe’s forehead as he swore, “And I love you, my dove.”

\--

The next morning, Kylo was awakened by a firm shake to his shoulder.  When he opened his eyes, they first fell upon Poe’s beatific face as he slept on beside Kylo; but then Kylo turned away from him to look up and saw Hux’s paler, sterner visage staring down at him.

“It is almost dawn,” the redheaded man muttered.  “Do you want him to see?”  Kylo didn’t, in a way, for fear of the reaction Poe might have, yet he knew it was the only way to convince Poe of the truth.

“Yes,” Kylo finally replied.  “Wait for us in the front.  Please,” he added as an afterthought.  Hux pursed his lips for a moment.

“I’ll say this for him, he’s made you far more agreeable than you once were,” Hux observed before stalking away and closing the door behind him.

Kylo sighed and turned back to Poe, whom he awakened with kisses to his parted lips and unshaven cheeks just beginning to show the shadow of a beard.  Poe made a contented whimpering noise then lifted his eyelids enough to look at Kylo.

“Is it morning?” he whispered.

“Yes.”  Kylo kissed his mouth again before sitting up.  “Come, it’s almost dawn.”

“Oh.”  The slight smile on Poe’s face fell away as he sat up as well.  He watched as Kylo got up from the bed, shivering in the frigid air; then Poe crept out as well.  They pulled on their pants quickly, and Kylo put his arm around Poe’s shoulders for both warmth and reassurance as they joined Hux in the main room of the cottage.

The slender redhead was slumped in one of the chairs with his long legs splayed in front of him.  He’d taken off his shoes already—even in human form, he hated wearing them—and from the exhaustion on his face, it was clear he hadn’t slept.  _I can’t blame him, though,_ Kylo admitted. _If I were only human one night a month, I’d stay awake for it too._   He glanced down at Poe beside him and thought of how horrid it would be to be unable to make love to him, even to kiss him.  How awful to realize that Kylo might _never_ have the chance save for one night in twenty-eight.

But then another thought occurred to him: _Hux has never had a lover at all, not in all the eleven years since I cursed him.  Not even a whore, and he surely could have found one in some nearby town, close enough for him to get there and back in a night._   Even if Hux preferred men to women, something Kylo had never inquired about, a male partner would not have been impossible to find.  (Hux’s chastity applied in his feline guise as well, something which relieved Kylo greatly.  Once his friend started catching and eating rats, Kylo had feared Hux would being to seek out she-cats as well, which would have been embarrassing for them both.  Fortunately, it never happened.)

Of course, Kylo had never taken a lover either, but that was because his heart belonged to Poe.  Hux was different; he had no dreams of true love to sustain him.

_True love._   The phrase echoed through Kylo’s mind.  _That was what always broke the wicked witches’ spells in the old folk tales.  True love’s kiss wakened the sleeping princesses, turned the frog back into a man._   Kylo felt stupid to have not thought of it before, but then, those tales were only stories with no basis in true magic.  _And anyway,_ he reasoned, _Hux doesn’t **have** a true love.  He sees no one but myself most of the time, and whatever suspicions Poe might have had, he certainly isn’t in love with **me**._

While Kylo was thinking all these things, Poe had moved from his side to stand next to the table.  He watched Hux while digging his teeth into his lower lip, until the redheaded man cast an irritated look up at him.

“You don’t have to stare,” Hux muttered.  “I’ll tell you when it’s about to happen.”

“I’m sorry,” Poe blurted out.  “A-about everything, I mean.  If I’ve made things more difficult for you—”  He broke off and blushed, perhaps remembering calling the lanky, handsome man before him “kitty kitty.”

Then, amazingly, Hux smiled.  It was a faint smile, but it was also the first one Kylo had seen on the pale lips in many months.

“You have not,” Hux said.  “And I’m glad you finally came—I’ve spent most of my life listening to Kylo blather on about you, and I was beginning to think you were all some mad fantasy of his.  I am pleased to know that you’re real. . . and pleased that you’ve made him so happy.”  Poe’s blush deepened, yet he smiled as he looked back at Kylo.

“He has made me happy too—” Poe began, but a low cry from Hux cut him off.

“Damn,” Hux hissed.  “Now.  It’s happening.”

Poe’s expression changed to one of alarm, and he drew back.  Kylo went to him and put his arm back around Poe’s shoulders for reassurance, although there was no danger.  The transformation was not even painful for Hux, yet Poe might be frightened all the same.  Still, what happened was hardly impressive, as there was no intermediate stage between man and cat and no sense of devolution.  Hux simply shuddered, and then a ginger tom cat with a worn white shirt puddled around him was left sitting where the human being had been.  Poe jumped at the sudden, loud popping sound of air rushing to fill the empty space Hux’s larger body had occupied, but even Poe’s reaction came from being merely startled and not truly frightened.  Hux’s empty pants tumbled to the floor, and the cat shook himself before giving the two remaining men a look both defensive and embarrassed.  He meowed in a way that meant, _There.  Are you satisfied?_

Kylo felt a bit like asking Poe the same thing, until he looked down at the smaller man.  Poe’s eyes were wide with horror, and he had his right hand, the one opposite Kylo, pressed to his mouth.  Puzzled, Kylo glanced at Hux once more in case something terrible had happened, but no, the cat was still sitting there with the tip of his long, plush tail twitching.  Hux cocked his head as he watched Poe, then looked down at himself as Kylo had, to check for anything amiss.

“Poe?” Kylo murmured.  Poe’s hand dropped back to his side, and then he pulled away from Kylo and stepped back with his eyes still fixed on Hux.  Hot pinpricks of panic seared Kylo’s face, and they only multiplied when he started to come after Poe and the hunter drew further from him.  “ _Poe!_ ”

“It’s true.”  Poe’s voice was a hoarse whisper.  His frightened eyes moved from Hux to Kylo, and he looked for a moment as if he might actually faint.  “You truly are a witch.”

“That’s what I’ve been _telling_ you!” Kylo groaned, fear and frustration making his voice thick with what sounded like anger.  “Over and over I’ve told you, and last night, I gave you the whole story of what happened to Hux.  You _knew_ —”

Poe interrupted in that same awful whisper, “You told me, I knew, but I didn’t—I didn’t. . . _believe_.  Now, though. . . now I have to.”

“Poe—” Kylo tried again as he reached out a hand.  Poe flinched, and Kylo felt sick to see his beloved reacting to him out of fear.  Hux meowed again and jumped down from the chair.  He approached Poe, mewing in a soothing tone, but Poe stumbled back from him too, almost to the back wall of the room.  The cat stood there a moment, then turned and went to Kylo instead.  Kylo bent to pet his head (an action which Hux had come to enjoy, in cat form at least) in silent gratitude for Hux’s attempt to calm Poe.  Hux accepted the pat, then slunk away into the bedroom to leave Kylo and Poe alone.

Kylo went to the small window at the front of the cottage and looked out.  The sun itself was not yet visible, but its light had already brightened the landscape on what promised to be a beautiful, clear morning.

_Samhain_ , Kylo remembered, _today is Samhain.  It’s been a year now since I came back from the coven.  A year that they’ve been trying to reclaim me._

“Ben,” Poe said from behind him.  When Kylo turned, Poe had come forward again to stand beside the table.  He was looking not at Kylo but into the fireplace where last night’s embers might still be glowing beneath a layer of ash.

“What?” said Kylo.

“I should go.”

“Go?” Kylo echoed.  And yet, he wasn’t really surprised.  _Despite all I did to prepare him, everything I told him about myself. . . I should have understood that it wouldn’t be enough._

“I need to think,” Poe told him, hardly speaking above a whisper.  “To pray.  I need time.”

_Time to judge me, you mean,_ Kylo thought, _to decide whether or not you can love me._   He was angry, somewhere deep within his core, but he could hardly feel it past the ache of his heart.

“All right,” Kylo heard himself say.  “Go then, but make sure you go straight back to the council and are protected when night falls.”  He had no desire left to argue or to fight for Poe’s acceptance, and in fact, Kylo felt that nothing he could say would make any difference.  Poe looked a bit surprised at the answer, but then he nodded and began to gather up his belongings.  After putting on his cloak, Poe stopped at the door, close to Kylo, and looked up at the taller man.

“Should I return?” Poe asked softly.  “If—if my prayers are answered. . . do you want me to return?”  The unasked question hung between them: _If I go, will you still want me?_   Kylo would, he _always_ would, but the tight core of anger answered for him.

“That is not a decision I can make for you—it is between you and the Lord,” he told Poe.  “I love you, and I will always love you, but I am also a witch and will always be so.  If you cannot love me as a witch, then—then no.  I do not want you to come back.”

Poe’s lips formed his name, but no sound came out.  Then his face seemed to shatter, and he turned it away as he fumbled with the door latch.  When he got the door open, Poe stumbled out without looking back, but he paused long enough to choke out words past a rising sob.

“I _do_ love you, Ben, no matter what you are.  Can’t you understand—I am lost _because_ I love you!”

As Poe hurried away toward the side of the cottage, Kylo closed the door and latched it.  He stood there resting his forehead on the wood surface until he heard the sound of Bey’s hoofbeats start up, then fade away.  When he knew Poe was gone, Kylo lifted his head and wiped at the tears streaming down his face.

_God, please, **please** tell him he can be with me.  Tell him it isn’t a sin, tell him You won’t condemn him for loving a witch._   And even though he knew one should never bargain with God, Kylo prayed, _I will set right all the wrongs I’ve done if You’ll only let him love me._

\--

To be continued


	15. Chapter 15

At first, Poe wept as he rode away from Ben’s home, but soon the icy breeze caused from Bey’s galloping dried the tears before they even left his eyes.  He kept hearing Ben’s words: _I do not want you to come back._   Poe knew what else Ben had said, that he didn’t want Poe back _if_ Poe couldn’t love him, but it still wasn’t the answer Poe had wanted to hear.

_I wanted him to say yes, to say he needs me with him no matter what,_ Poe thought. _That he’d wait for me forever. . . ._

But it was asking too much, and Poe understood that in his heart.  He had made Ben wait so long already, and he’d refused to believe what Ben had told him all along.

Poe said it to himself over and over again as he rode: _He is a witch, a true witch.  I can no longer deny it—everything I thought was true has changed. . . ._

Finally, Poe allowed Bey to slow to a walk as they neared the settlement, and he tried to pray, begging God to tell him what to do.  Poe wanted an irrefutable answer, a commandment that would absolve him of responsibility whether that answer was yes or no, whether he could be with Ben or would have to forsake his true love.  Yet Poe got no answer at all, no sense that God was even listening.  The only thought that came to him came in his own voice: _I should go to Master Dooku and tell him my tests were wrong._

Fresh tears threatened to force their way from Poe’s eyes to think of it.  He remembered what Ben had said the morning before, that Poe would never do anything to hurt him and that witches were not Poe’s true enemy.  Yet was he not bound by his vows to the Hunters’ Council and to God?  Poe had sworn before both that he would perform his tests and report his findings honestly.

_What is God commanding you to do?_ Ben had asked him.  _Is He telling you I must die?_

_No,_ thought Poe, _God isn’t telling me anything, and that’s what makes this so hard._

All Poe had to rely on was his own judgment, and once he rode into the boundaries of the settlement, that judgment told him he must find Dooku and confess what he had seen.  After that, it would be out of Poe’s hands.  He tried to believe that Dooku would be fair, and he reminded himself of how the older man had spoken of Ben fairly kindly the previous day.  But Dooku’s coldness during the actual testing kept coming to mind, and Poe feared _that_ was the elder’s true nature. . . a nature which would condemn a witch to death no matter who loved him.

Poe’s ambivalence plagued him even as he rode slowly toward the small but fine house Dooku occupied, according to what Mistress Organa had told Poe.  As she had said, Dooku founded the settlement, and his home was the likely the oldest building there, yet it had also benefited from the most embellishment and improvement over the years.  Oddly, the house lay on the edge of the settlement rather than at its heart, and the forest so many of the townspeople feared came nearly to Dooku’s door.  Poe pondered that as he passed the inn and turned his horse toward the elder’s home.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ben’s father, Master Solo, on the front stoop of the inn talking with Goodman Kanata, but Poe was too distracted to take much notice of them.

As he rounded the corner of the inn, Poe saw Dooku himself outside of his home, which lay perhaps a hundred yards away.  In spite of his resolve, Poe reined Bey in and tensed with apprehension; yet Dooku never even looked his way.  Instead, the older man walked toward the border of the woods and paused there, gazing deep within the trees.  Then to Poe’s consternation, Dooku turned his head and, Poe was sure, looked straight at the hunter.  Poe shivered with a chill not related to the unnaturally cool weather.

But after that one dispassionate look, Dooku ignored Poe entirely.  He faced the woods again, then stalked forward into the brush until the vegetation hid him from Poe’s view.  Poe stared after him, waiting to see if Dooku would reemerge.  When he did not, Poe’s mind raced.

_Where is he going?_ the hunter wondered.  _Can anything lie in those dense woods save the coven—and if not, why would he be going there, now?_   Poe’s sudden urge to go after Dooku confused him as much as the elder’s actions.  Was that urge a message from God, or was it Poe’s own curiosity, his desire to learn Dooku’s destination. . . and his desire to get his awful task over with and tell Dooku that Ben was a witch?

Either way, Poe had to act if he didn’t want to lose Dooku’s trail into the woods.  Shoving aside all doubt as to the source of his conviction, Poe wheeled Bey around and rode back to where the two townsmen were sitting in front of the inn.  The trees grew far too close together for Poe to ride his horse into the woods, and he would have to leave Bey behind.

“Master Solo!” Poe called to Ben’s father.  The grey-haired man looked up at him, and his somewhat wrinkled brow furrowed even more.

“Poe?  I thought you left town yesterday.  What—”

Poe interrupted him, “Please, I need you to take my horse.”  He dismounted as he spoke and tugged Bey close enough to the building to hand the reins to the startled man.

“But—where are you going?” Master Solo protested.  “What the hell’s going on?”

“I’m going into the woods!” Poe called over his shoulder as he hurried away from the inn and back toward where he had last seen Dooku.  “I’ll explain later!  Please, stable him until I get back!”  He heard Solo yell something else, and even the more taciturn Goodman Kanata growled something, but Poe didn’t take the time to find out what they’d said.

Because he had left his larger bag strapped to Bey’s back and carried only his satchel, worn across his chest, Poe could move quickly.  He darted into the woods where Dooku had entered, then paused to seek out signs of the path the elder had taken.  Those were fairly clear, and Poe began picking his way through the trees along the same route.

He was not afraid at first.  Even though Poe hadn’t truly believed in witches up until that morning, he still carried all the usual weapons of his trade: not only vials of holy water and testing pins for witches, but also a pistol loaded with silver bullets (said to kill not only lycanthropes but also shape-shifters of all kinds), a wooden stake and iron needle for destroying revenants, and a long steel knife which had been blessed, for fighting whatever else a witch hunter might encounter.  Poe felt safe thus armed—not because the weapons would be effective against the supernatural, but because they would be effective against human beings.  Poe had always assumed that those would be the only creatures to pose him a real threat.  He was strong and quick and a good fighter, and between his faith in his weapons and abilities, and his faith in his God, Poe had never really feared what any man might do to him.

But now. . . the farther Poe pressed into the forest, the more he began to realize how radically his so-called “narrow worldview” had changed.  Now that he knew witches _were_ real, he was afraid—not just of them, but of what else might be real too.  If witches could exist, if a man could become a cat and then a man again, what about all the other things: the lycanthropes and the revenants, the gibbering Old Ones descending upon unknown Kadath in the desert of ice?  What if Poe faced not Dagon’s statue which so easily fell and smashed itself to bits, but Dagon himself?

_What can I possibly do,_ he thought, _if I track Dooku to the Dark coven in the heart of the forest?  Even if he is going there to fight them, how could just the two of us face them all?  And if he’s going there for any other purpose. . . ._

Poe knew then that this was the real reason he’d followed Dooku: he feared that the elder who’d so coldly judged Ben Organa was in league with the Dark witches.

_I’ll never be able to take them all on, but I cannot turn back,_ Poe told himself.  _If he is involved with the coven, I must know._   And so Poe pressed onward, trailing Dooku and praying for God’s protection so that Poe could learn what he needed to know and then withdraw without being discovered.

Poe walked for only about ten minutes before he caught the sound of voices from somewhere ahead.  He stopped short and listened, trying to quiet his own nervous breath so he could hear over it.  Yes, those were voices, both male and female, and they were chanting.  Even someone _not_ trained in the alleged ways of witches would have to know what chanting in a dense forest on Samhain must mean.

Before he began to move forward again, now at a slower pace, Poe slipped a hand into his satchel and took up his pistol.  It was a plain weapon, not like the beautiful gun Mistress Phasma carried with its inlaid pearl grip and the barrel which she kept polished until it gleamed like the silver bullets it fired.  The battered, second (or maybe third) hand pistol had been all Poe could afford—but he was an excellent shot, and the pistol’s appearance had no influence on its effectiveness.  As much as he respected Phasma, Poe sometimes felt that she invested a little too much time in the pomp and show of being a witch hunter.

_Yes, but then Mistress Phasma actually believed in witches all along,_ Poe reminded himself, _so that makes her a far better hunter than I. . . and I wish to God that she was with me now._

Poe felt a slight but chilly breeze lift even among the close-packed trees, and he turned his face into it.  The chanting had grown louder when the wind rose, which told Poe that his quarry lay in that direction.  Now he could make out some of the words the ominous voices spoke:

_Iron clad . . . hoar frost covers all_  
_. . .  slithers . . . . . . for call_  
 _. . . on the hillside, Hunter’s Moon. . ._  
 _The Wild Hunt is about now!_

Then the wind changed again and the voices slid away, but Poe had heard enough.  It was a Samhain chant he knew of from his studies, and the Hunter’s Moon it spoke of—the first full moon after the Harvest Moon of the autumnal equinox—had occurred just the night before.  Perhaps Ben had been right to worry about a full moon on the eve of Samhain.

_The Wild Hunt_ , Poe thought as he crept still closer and the beat of the chant reached him again, although he couldn’t make out the words now.  He was a witch hunter, but the Wild Hunt was not a hunt for witches.  It was quite the opposite, and the fact the chanters were trying to summon it chilled Poe to his core.

Finally, Poe caught a glimpse of movement through the thick tree trunks.  Sooner than he had expected, he nearly stumbled right into the clearing where the chanters had gathered.  Poe drew back behind an enormous fir and squinted out at the sunlight breaking into the circular clearing.  When his eyes adjusted to the contrast of the light after his trek through the shade of the forest, he counted twelve figures ringed about the clearing’s edge—the sources of twelve voices mixed in the chant whose words he could now hear clearly:

_Death is but a doorway,_  
_And Herne is on both sides._  
 _Here or there, no matter_  
 _For Herne with us abides!_

It was the ending of the Samhain ritual chants Poe had read years ago, when he was learning all the council had to teach him about the ways of witches.  Of course, Poe had thought no one _actually_ chanted those words, or if one did, nothing would happen.

_But if witches are real, perhaps Herne the Hunter is too, and perhaps he’ll ride on his Wild Hunt tonight. . . hunting whom?_   Poe’s hand clenched around the grip of his gun.  Herne was an avatar of the antlered god sometimes called Cernunnos—not one of the Old Ones the _Necronomicon_ praised but one of the gods of Earth, yet still no one Poe had ever believed in.  Where Herne led the Wild Hunt, according to legend, disaster followed.

_It is only a myth,_ Poe told himself, trying to believe it, trying to retreat into his old narrow world.  _Only a story, and they cannot summon a story._   But what if they _could_?

Poe shoved the thought to the back of his mind and instead fixed his attention on the twelve people—the twelve witches?—there in the clearing, still moving in arcane patterns though their chanting had fallen silent.  They all wore black, just like Ben, and they had hoods drawn up over their heads.  Yet Poe recognized the firm jaw and close-clipped, white beard of one almost directly opposite him.

_Master Dooku_.

Poe knew then that he had to get away, back to the settlement to tell— _Whom?_ he demanded of himself.  _He is the leader of the settlement, the voice of moral authority.  Who will believe that he is a witch—and who could do anything about it even if they **did** believe me?_

No, he couldn’t speak out in the settlement.  He would have to hurry back to retrieve Bey, then ride for the Hunters’ Council.  _They_ would believe him, and the very strongest hunters could come back with him to deal with the coven.

_After Samhain_.  As Poe began backing away from the clearing, eyes still fixed warily on the witches within, he thought, _It is too late to stop them from whatever they’re trying to do, and their power will only grow as nightfall draws closer.  I have to get away before then, like Ben said. . . before the Wild Hunt begins._

Poe’s conscience sneered at him, _Yes, you have to run away to safety and leave the people here to the mercy of the Dark magic of the witches and the Wild magic of Herne._   For while Herne himself was said to be of neither the Light or the Dark, humans still died when he rode.  Some sightings of the Hunt had portended great disasters, floods or famines or wars; some led only to the death of whoever witnessed Herne and his otherworldly huntsmen riding across the sky.

_Maybe they’re calling him to hunt **me** ,_ Poe realized.  _Maybe that’s why Dooku delayed me, to keep me here until Samhain.  Or maybe. . . maybe they’re calling Herne to come for Ben._   Ben had said he’d left the coven because of a falling out with its leader, and perhaps that leader wanted revenge.

Poe’s feet felt as if they’d frozen to the ground.  How could he run to the Hunters’ Council and leave Ben to face the Wild Hunt alone?

_I have to warn him_ , _and even if we stand no chance, I have to fight beside him.  Whatever he is, whether it’s wrong or not, I love him.  I can’t abandon him._

Just as Poe thought those things and felt that love rise in his chest, Dooku saw him for the second time.  He turned his face straight toward where Poe lurked among the trees and stared at the hunter with cold brown eyes just visible from within his hood.  Poe hadn’t moved, hadn’t made a sound, but somehow Dooku knew.

Nonsensically, Poe thought, _He felt me.  He felt my love for Ben, even through all the coven’s hatred._   Nonsense or not, Dooku’s stare finally shook Poe from his paralysis, and he turned to bolt away from the clearing.

Poe meant to retrace his path back to the settlement, but his panic combined with the density of the trees made that impossible.  Soon he was plunging through untrodden underbrush, and he could only cast out a desperate prayer that he would find his way out of the woods.  When Poe paused for breath, one gloved hand braced against the black trunk of a tree, he heard the terrible sound of crunching leaves and rustling brush from a short distance behind him.  Someone from the coven was pursuing him.

_I can’t stop here,_ Poe realized, and he started out again.  He couldn’t run, exactly, because the trees grew too close together.  Instead, he moved as quickly as he could around and through them, not traveling in a straight line just in case he could confuse his pursuer.

Poe changed his prayer: _Please lead me to safety._   Even getting out of the woods might do him no good now unless he came out in a spot which would put him at an advantage for fighting back.  In between his repeated prayers for deliverance, Poe thought, _I didn’t even have to wait for tonight’s Wild Hunt to become their quarry._

Then abruptly, no more trees rose before him when he staggered forward.  Poe stumbled then leapt to his feet right away, looking around to see that he’d chanced upon another clearing.  It was weedy and overgrown, but free of witches. . . and when Poe’s darting eyes fell upon the charred remains of a small fire, his breath caught in his throat.

_I didn’t chance upon it, I **was** led here_ , he understood.  _This is where Ben brought me, the place where he spent his time as a child._   There Ben had held him and said, “Loving you can’t be a sin.”  Poe could still feel that love, and it renewed his conviction that he had to make it back to Ben and warn him of what Poe had witnessed.

Poe still grasped his pistol, and he rotated the hand holding it so that his wrist cracked and dissipated the stiffness that had come from squeezing the grip so tightly as he fled.  Then he turned and faced the way he had come, pistol aimed in his right hand while he slipped his left back into his satchel and closed it over his mother’s Bible.  It wasn’t that Poe thought the physical Bible itself could protect him, beyond what the Word within could do.  Poe just wanted to touch it for his mother’s sake, to remind himself that even should he die there in the clearing, his life had not been a vain enterprise.  _I became a hunter to avenge her, so if I die as a hunter, it will be a good death._

He’d thought that perhaps Dooku himself was the pursuer, for the elder had seemed strong despite his age.  But another man stepped into the clearing not half a minute later, and Poe drew in and held another breath with a hiss.

The man wore black as all the witches in the clearing had—Poe realized that Dooku must have sent one of them to chase him down—but otherwise he seemed unearthly.  The face Poe could glimpse beneath his hood was crossed with streaks of black coloration, and the shadowed eyes amidst the streaks seemed to glow.  When the man reached up one hand to shove the hood back from his head, Poe realized that the marks on his face were not just dirt or gunpowder or even paint like some women used on their faces; his skin itself was the color of soot in stripes like those on the face of a tiger Poe had seen pictured in the council’s bestiary.  Perhaps they were birthmarks, or perhaps tattoos—some indigenous peoples of the area did have those, though Poe had never seen any tattoos so dense and so prominent before.

The man’s head was hairless, either shaved or naturally bald.  His eyes didn’t really glow, but they were a strange, intense hazel that appeared almost golden.  When he drew back his lips to speak, Poe saw that his teeth were sharpened to grotesque points, like the fangs of an animal.

“So you are Master Dameron,” the man—the _witch_ said in a low voice.  Poe finally dropped his eyes from the man’s face to look at his hands.  Those too were marked with the black patterns, but more importantly, they were empty.  The fact that he carried nothing worried Poe more than if he had, because who besides a witch would hunt a man unarmed?  Still, he couldn’t bring himself simply to fire his gun upon a man with no weapon.

“Who are you?” Poe demanded, rather than confirm the witch’s statement.  The other man’s lips—the stripes crossed those, too—drew back to show just a little more of the pointed teeth in what wasn’t quite a sneer.

“Maul,” he said.  At first, Poe’s brain processed the word as “Moll,” like a woman’s name, but then he realized what its true spelling must be.  An apt name, judging from those teeth.  Then Maul added, “I am a Dark witch.  Just like your lover.”

Poe never even thought of denying what Ben was to him; he only protested, “Ben is not of the Dark.”

“Oh?”  Maul’s almost-smile grew a bit wider.  “Then you do concede that witches are real?”  In response to Poe’s startled look, he went on, “Of course we’ve all known of you for some time, the witch hunter who does not believe in witches and has set so many free.  That unbelief made you of little consequence to us until you came here, but you may make a formidable opponent yet.”

His words reminded Poe of something his mother had told him long ago, when she taught him how to love and serve God.  “The devil’s greatest victory,” she’d said, “is when he convinces us he does not exist.”  Poe wondered why he’d forgotten that.

“Witches are real, yes,” Poe muttered, “and Ben is one.  That much I’ll admit.”

“And you really believe he is not of the Dark?”  Maul spoke in exactly the tone that so annoyed Poe when Ben used it, as if Poe were a naïve child.

Embittered, Poe snapped, “I know he lived in the coven among the Dark witches, and I know he used their magic at one time.  But no longer!  Now he has turned on—on _you_.”

The witch made a raspy, chortling noise of laughter before he responded, “Let me guess, he told you that he’d changed his ways, all for the love of you?  That your pure heart had drawn him to the Light?”  He spoke in a mocking, sing-song voice like children did when they teased one another.  Poe flushed with both indignation and embarrassment.  Yes, Ben had told him such, and should Poe not have believed it?  Was it so obvious a lie?

“How many others—Dark witches, malevolent humans, even demons—do you suppose have used that lure?” Maul continued.  “And how many lovesick simpletons do you suppose have fallen for it?  It is true, Kylo Ren left our coven out of a disagreement with our High Priest—but not because he’d turned from the Dark, and most certainly not because of _you_.  He wanted more autonomy than our Priest allows, and so he left, as he had every right to do.”  The witch shrugged.  “Still we negotiate for his return, because his powers are great.  Both he and the coven are stronger together than they are apart.”

“I don’t believe you,” Poe growled, “that he has not turned from the Dark.  I don’t claim that he’s gone to the Light, but he’s not. . . he’s not _evil_.”  He was thinking of the _Necronomicon_ and how anyone truly Dark and obsessed with power would be searching it for far more than a spell to turn a cat back into a man.

“Neither is the Dark,” returned the witch, “nor is the Light ‘good,’ not in the way your Bible teaches that Satan is evil and God is good.  But a philosophical discussion on the nature of such things is not what should concern us right now.  All you need to understand is that your lover’s heart is as Dark as the night sky, and if there are stars in it, they aren’t glimmers of the Light.”  He smiled again, drawing his striped lips open over his sharp teeth, and his golden eyes swept over Poe’s body.  “It wasn’t your pure heart that drew Ren’s attention, more likely your pretty face and tight ass.  Have you let him fuck you yet?”

Poe’s face flared once more with heat, and he blurted out, “No!” without thinking.

“Hmn.  When he does, he’ll split you in two,” Maul observed, the way he might say, “When it rains, you’ll get wet.”  Poe’s mind immediately fixed on the questions of how the other man could know that,  of how intimately familiar he was with Ben.  Poe seethed with jealousy, and even though he reminded himself that Ben said he’d never had a lover, doubt had already taken root in his heart.

_If he lied about turning away from the Dark, he could lie about that too,_ thought Poe, and for a moment, he thought it was so.  But then he remembered all the words of love Ben had breathed in his deep voice, the way his dark eyes looked into Poe’s and how carefully his hands had caressed Poe’s skin.

_This man can also lie,_ Poe decided, _and I’ll trust Ben with my very soul before I’ll believe anything a Dark witch says._

“Go back to your master,” Poe told Maul as scornfully as he could manage.  “You and I have no business with one another.”

As if Poe hadn’t spoken, Maul continued, “Even if we leave aside the question of Ren’s allegiance to the Dark or to the Light. . . he is still a witch no matter whose magic he practices—and he is still a man.  Is it not a sin for you to let him live, and a sin for you to lie with him?  So haven’t you already fallen, Master Dameron?  And if, to your mind, evil and the Dark are one. . . does that not make you one of the Dark?”

Guilt stabbed straight through Poe and made him want to fall to his knees and beg God’s forgiveness.  Maybe Maul saw something of Poe’s wavering conviction in his face, for he moved closer with a soundless shifting of his robe.  The witch stopped, still some yards away from Poe, and clenched his hands at his sides so that his fingers curled up and were hidden by the robe’s long sleeves.  He no longer smiled; in fact, his face bore no expression at all.  Finally, Poe managed to squelch the remorse he felt and respond.

“No,” he hissed, “it does not.  Yes, I have sinned, and yes, I am fallen.  All human beings are.  But to sin is not to succumb wholly to evil, nor is it to become one with the Dark.”  He watched Maul intently even as he spoke, suspecting that the witch was simply trying to distract him, to make it that much easier to take Poe down.  Why else would a Dark witch be concerned with Poe’s morality?  Not about to be lulled, Poe kept his pistol ready.

Maul’s saffron eyes flicked over Poe’s face; then he shrugged and asked, “Even so, are you not concerned with willfully _continuing_ to sin by lying with _him_?”

“That,” Poe growled, “is between me and the Lord.  Go back to _your_ master, I said, before I’m forced to hunt you.”

“‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’” breathed Maul.  “Go on then, witch hunter.  Hunt me if you must.”  Now his smile returned, fanged and terrible, and Poe saw one sleeve of his robe twitch as if he moved his hand beneath it.  Casting a spell?  Poe couldn’t be sure.  His studies had taught that some witches cast with words and some with hand signs, still others with artifacts such as wands or staffs.  So certain that he’d never met a real witch and never would, Poe had no way to know which method was most common, which Maul might use.

Poe aimed his pistol at the other man’s heart with a steady hand.  He had never killed another person before, but he felt no fear, only regret that it might come to that.  _Lord forgive me,_ he prayed, _if I have to harm him._

The motion of Maul’s sleeve stilled, and his eyes closed.  Poe kept his breath slow and even, as he watched and wondered if this were all still part of an elaborate distraction.  But then the witch lifted his hand, and when his sleeve slipped away from it down to his arm, Poe saw that the hand glowed red with an aura like a halo.

_Dear God,_ thought Poe, not a prayer but an epithet he didn’t have time to regret.  He had never seen such a thing before, and while it terrified him, it also banished his hesitation.  He’d aimed at Maul’s chest because, while a headshot was more likely to kill if it hit, it was also more likely to miss entirely since the target was far smaller than a man’s chest.  Now Poe’s finger curled tight over the trigger of the pistol.  He only flinched slightly from the recoil and prepared to take aim again, expecting Maul to have fallen from the shot but quite possibly to be still alive.

But Maul remained standing before him, right hand glowing and left hand now lifted as well with the fingers splayed.  The silver bullet fired from Poe’s pistol hung in the air between the two men.  As Poe stared at it, Maul dropped his fingers, and the bullet echoed their motion and fell to the ground.

Poe fired a second shot before his brain even tried to process what he had seen.  This time he prepared himself for the recoil and managed to keep his eyes open, so he saw the bullet actually come to a halt in mid-air.  Maul’s eyes remained closed, but it had to be he that suspended the bullet with some magical, invisible power from his left hand while his right prepared to smite Poe.

_No. . . ._   The thought was not a word so much as Poe’s entire psyche revolting against the impossibility that even a witch could do what Maul had done, and the realization that Poe had no defense.  If Maul could stop bullets, what use would Poe’s knife be, or the stake, or anything else he carried?

Even before Maul sent the second bullet tumbling out of the air, Poe had shoved his pistol into his satchel with one hand and drawn out his mother’s Bible with the other.  It was all he had left to count on.

Maul didn’t give him a chance to fire another shot anyway; as the witch’s left hand dropped the bullet, his right cast his spell forward, at Poe.  Despite the fiery red glow, the light felt cold when the edge of its aureole reached Poe, and he grasped the hem of his coat in the two smallest fingers of his hand, beneath the Bible, to draw the garment tighter about him.  Then the light spread over him, enveloped him, and began to freeze him from the outside inward.

_Cold, why is it so cold?_ Poe wondered as he gasped with shock.  _An ice spell. . . not what I would have expected from. . . from. . . ._   He was too cold to think.

Poe’s breath felt like it had been knocked from his body just by the chill of the magic.  The iciness cut through Poe’s boots and breeches and hair, and the exposed skin of his face burned for a mere second before going completely numb.  Poe’s upper body, his arms sheltered in his cloak and his hands gloved, was still warm enough to move, and he flinched.  Although he couldn’t feel his eyes, he could still move those too, and he tore them away from Maul’s bizarre, still emotionless face.  Those golden eyes had opened again, and Poe didn’t want the last thing he saw to be the witch’s gaze burning into his own.

All feeling had seeped out of Poe’s legs, and they gave way beneath him.  When he dropped to his knees, he couldn’t feel the impact, and even the sensations in his upper body were fading.

_It’s still moving inward,_ he realized.  _My cloak protected me a little, but the Dark magic will spread until it stops my heart._   His mind didn’t seem to feel like processing this thought, and it decided to focus on a mental image instead: lacy patterns of ice crystals creeping over a window pane during the night as Maul’s spell crept over Poe’s body; starry feathers of frost which covered the wavy glass.  Poe had stared through a window like that once when he was very young, past the ice feathers and the air bubbles trapped within the thick glass, to look out at a crystalline world of ice the morning after the first frost he could remember.

_It’s beautiful outside,_ he’d told his mother.  _It’s like. . . like where the ice king lives with his grandson, the prince._   That was Poe’s favorite fairy story, and he often fell asleep with his head on his mother’s lap as she told it to him, wishing he could take her and his father away from their poor cottage and the town full of people who feared and hate them.  Poe would take his parents to the ice king’s palace, and the ice king would let them stay, and Poe would spend his days playing with the mischievous prince whom no one could control, not even the king himself—

_No,_ Poe thought again.  He forced his brain back to the present, to the aching cold he now felt in his shoulders and groin.  _I won’t die in the past but in the here and now, the real.  Even if so much more is real than I ever dreamed possible. . . ._

Maul had left him there, as far as Poe could tell, while he was lost in his daydream.  At least, Poe couldn’t see the witch within his field of vision, and when he tried to lift his eyes again, they stayed fixed on the ground.  Fear gripped Poe’s heart even before the spell reached it, and the fear felt far colder.  He couldn’t even pray.

Poe wobbled on his knees, then collapsed on his side.  Again, he couldn’t feel the ground against him, although he heard the soft crunch of years of fallen leaves beneath him as if from a great distance.  The impact knocked his mother’s Bible from his hand, but it fell open close enough to his hand that two of his fingers still touched it through Ben’s uncle’s gloves.  Poe’s vision was beginning to blur and dim, and he couldn’t tell what book or chapter the Bible had opened upon.

Yet he could see two things resting upon the spread pages of the book: the black lock of Ben’s hair Poe had pressed between them, and the small silver cross the hunter wore on a chain around his neck.  The necklace had belonged to Poe’s father, who had put it on Poe the day his son became a hunter.

_At least I’ll die here in the place where Ben was happy,_ Poe thought, _and I’ll die with them in my heart. . . the three people I’ve loved the best._   Once he understood that, he was able to pray once more, and by the time he had asked God to forgive his sins and his failures, his sight was gone.

_Please take me to be with You_ , Poe prayed into the darkness.  _Please tell me that I won’t be damned for loving Ben.  And please, please protect him, please let him—_

Before he could finish the prayer, his mind rebelled from the real entirely and withdrew to a place deep within itself where no spell could reach.  Poe’s body lay there in the woods on a cold yet sunny Samhain morning, but his soul had fled to the ice king’s palace.

\--

To be continued


	16. Chapter 16

On the morning of Samhain, Leia awoke before the sun and lay silently in bed with a feeling of foreboding.  She was alone; her husband had likely spent the night at the inn, again.  When he had first started staying out all night, soon after Ben ran away to the coven, Leia had been certain Han was committing adultery.  But eventually—especially once Maz had assured her over and over that while Han often got inebriated and passed out in her establishment, he only drank with Chewie and always slept alone—Leia came to trust that no other woman had lured her husband away from her.  What _had_ caused him to withdraw, she didn’t quite know.

_It’s just what I get for marrying a difficult man,_ Leia thought as she looked up at the high ceiling of their bedroom.  Still, she knew that wasn’t entirely fair; she herself could be a difficult woman.  _And together, we’ve made the most difficult son imaginable.  Whatever’s wrong this day, I’m sure it has something to do with him._

Finally, Leia arose since she had no hope of going back to sleep.  As she dressed, she tried to trace the source of her disquiet.  Leia was not a witch, not like her son and brother and father, anyway.  Her father had taught both his children the same lessons in magic, but Leia’s twin Luke was the one who’d excelled at it.  Still, Leia could sense when magic stirred, and she felt that in the air now.

_It’s not only because today is Samhain, either,_ she realized.  She made up the bed, then left her room and went to the kitchen to begin boiling some water for tea.  (Her servants would probably protest that she should leave all the household tasks to them, but she felt too restless to just _sit there_.)  No, she knew how the magic latent in the atmosphere felt on cross-quarter days—slightly heightened, a little more powerful, but not like this.  Not this strong, and, more importantly, not Dark.  On this particular Samhain, however, Dark witches were working.  Leia could feel their threat in the air all around her.  She couldn’t sense any menace from Ben himself, or any specifically directed _at_ Ben for that matter, not the way it had been when he first returned from the coven around last year’s Samhain.  Nevertheless, something was wrong.

As Leia had expected, Threepio raised a fuss over her early rising when he himself got up just after dawn.  His blathering fell upon nearly deaf ears, however, because at that same moment, she felt something else, something even more painful than the Dark.  Her son was hurting.

_From what?_ Leia wondered as she left the kitchen and went to a front window of the house to look out at a clear, cool morning.  _Is he in danger after all?_   She didn’t think so.  What she felt was heartache, not physical pain, and she had a pretty good idea of what, and who, could be troubling Ben’s heart.

“I should have sent for Luke as soon as Poe showed up here,” Leia muttered to herself, beginning to pace the length of the room.  “Hell, I should have sent for _Father_.  He probably would scold me, but how was I to know that the kind-hearted witch hunter I’d heard about was _that boy_?”

Han had never believed in Ben’s dreams.  He’d scoffed at Ben’s conviction that the boy he claimed to meet night after night was real, and after only a week or so, Ben ceased speaking of his dreams at all.  Leia thought he probably talked to his grandfather, Anakin, about them whenever one visited the other; as a child, Ben had revered Anakin and kept no secrets from him.  Besides, Anakin was also a witch who dreamed portentous dreams.

Yet even though Ben never again spoke of his dream friend to her, Leia suspected the dreams continued.  She forgot about them after a while, especially once Ben left home, but then she had seen Ben and Poe together for the first time, facing each other down in front of the church.  Then she’d remembered and realized that the handsome witch hunter looked like the boy from Ben’s dreams, the way Ben had described him to her: dark curly hair, warm brown eyes, tan skin.  And when she sensed how Ben felt when he was near Poe, Leia understood that the witch hunter she’d asked to save her son was the very same boy he’d always loved.

Was it the work of God?  The vagaries of magic?  Simple coincidence?  Leia supposed it didn’t really matter.  Whatever had drawn Ben’s soulmate here, she hoped he would bring Ben happiness and peace.

But now Samhain had come, the Dark was stirring, and she feared that Poe had broken Ben’s heart.

A little more than an hour after sunrise, Leia couldn’t stand to wait around any longer for something to happen.  Wrapped in a shawl, she left the house and walked down the hill to the village.  She wasn’t even sure what she intended to do, whether she should seek out Ben or search for the source of the Dark magic she felt.  Finally, she decided that going to Ben would be the more sensible choice and started for the stable to get her horse.

She got there just as her husband was hurrying out, looking bewildered.  When he saw Leia coming toward him, his face relaxed into an expression of relief—in fact, he seemed happier to see her than he had in a long time.

“Han?  Is something the matter?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he muttered.  “Just. . . did you know that Poe—Master Dameron is still here?”  A heavy feeling of dread settled into Leia’s stomach.

She swallowed hard and murmured, “No.  The last I saw of him was yesterday afternoon.  Have you seen him?”

“Yes, not long ago.”  Han gestured into the stable.  “He came riding up to Chewie and me, and told me to look after his horse.  Then he went tearing off into the woods!”

“The woods?” Leia breathed.  “ _Why?_ ”

Han shrugged.  “He said he would explain later.”  He frowned and studied his wife’s distressed face.  “What is it?”

“Han, you _know_ what’s in those woods!” Leia snapped in exasperation and fear.  “I thought Poe had more sense than to wander in there alone!”

“He wasn’t _wandering_ ,” grumbled Han.  “He was in a hurry.  He must have—I don’t know, seen something, heard something.  Or someone.”  Leia’s eyes widened, and she stared up at her taller husband.  That thought had never occurred to her.

“Did you see anyone else around the same time?” she asked.  “Someone Poe might be following?”  When Han shook his head, Leia pushed past him and hurried into the stable.

“Now where are _you_ going?” Han groaned after her.

“To get Ben!” Leia called back.  He followed her inside as she gathered her horse’s tack and began to saddle the animal.

“If you’re that worried about Poe, Chewie and I can go after him,” Han told her.  “But really, I think he’s capable of taking care of himself—”

“Ordinarily, I would agree,” Leia muttered while she worked.  “But today is Samhain, and I feel. . . .”  She trailed off, knowing that while her husband believed in magic—he had no other choice, really, after some of the things he’d witnessed over the years—he didn’t set much store by it.  But Han looked at her steadily.

“You feel something bad?”

She nodded and explained, “I lack the magical ability to counter the Darkness I feel—Ben is the only one here who can.”  She left unspoken the doubt she didn’t even want to admit to herself: the doubt that Ben would _want_ to stop the Dark.  _Maybe for Poe,_ she tried to reassure herself.  _Maybe Poe will save him in that way, too._

Han sighed and said, “You’d better take a horse for him, too.  I don’t know why he insists on walking everywhere—on foot, it would take him forever even to reach the spot where Poe went in.”  Then, to Leia’s amazement, he went over to the shelves where their tack was stored and hefted his own saddle.

By the time Leia had her horse saddled, Han had readied his own.  He led the stallion out of the stables after her and held the reins as she climbed up onto her horse.  She hadn’t dressed to ride that morning, but she sat astride the horse anyway; her skirts were full enough to allow it and still afford her modesty, although at the moment, she wouldn’t have cared if her legs were bared up to her knees.  Silly ideas of female propriety had no place in moments of crisis.

When Han passed the reins of his horse to her, Leia said, “Thank you, Han.  Will you and Chewie wait at the inn, just in case Poe returns?”

“Of course,” Han said.  He looked up at her and added, “Be careful, Leia.  And tell Ben to be careful too.”

Leia rode her horse at a quick walk, leading Han’s stallion beside her.  She tried not to dwell on the disturbances she could still feel in the atmosphere, but they swirled all around her, constantly drawing her mind back to Poe.  She knew that Poe was a sensible young man who wouldn’t normally do something so foolish as to wander too deep into the woods (on the day of Samhain no less). . . but Poe was also a young man in love with _Ben_ , and that likely meant sense had played no part in his actions.

_Why did he return so quickly?_ Leia wondered.  _He couldn’t have traveled all the way to the Hunters’ Council and back—either he never left town at all, or he turned around shortly after he departed.  And he didn’t stay at the inn, if Han only saw him this morning.  That means. . . he spent the night with Ben._

She knew she shouldn’t feel as startled as she did.  The two young men loved each other, that much was clear.  _And they were alone upstairs in my own house two nights ago.  Did I really think they would sleep in separate bedrooms?_ Leia scolded herself.  Still, for Poe to mislead her like that, to say he was going back to the council when he was really going to her son’s home, to lie with him. . . .

Leia’s conflicted thoughts did not cease until she saw someone on the path ahead of her, walking quickly toward her and the settlement.  Even from a distance, she knew the tall figure dressed in black was Ben.  She urged her horse forward faster, and when Ben lifted his downturned face and saw her, he quickened his own steps.  His orange cat paced beside him.

When they met on the path, mother and son stared at each other.  Han’s horse looked down at the cat and snorted at it.  The cat hissed.

“Something’s happened to Poe, hasn’t it?” Ben asked in a strained voice.  His face looked even paler than normal, and his eyes were ringed with shadows as if he hadn’t slept much.

“I don’t know.”  Leia spoke as calmly as she could manage.  The last thing any of them—Poe in particular—needed was for Ben to fly into a panicky rage.  “Han saw him a little earlier.  Poe left his horse behind and went into the woods.”

“The woods,” Ben hissed.  His gloved hands clenched at his sides, and he set his jaw as he glared down at the ground.  “The little fool, what could he possibly want _there_?”

Leia asked, almost pleading, “Ben, what happened?  This morning, when I awoke, I could feel the Dark.  But then. . . I felt _you_.  What did he do that hurt you so?”

“It doesn’t matter,” muttered Ben.  “Did you bring Father’s horse for me?”  Leia stifled a sigh at his blunt refusal to confide in her and instead answered his question.

“Yes.  Your father asked me to do so.”

Ben actually looked surprised for an instant, but then he hid it by bending down to scoop up the cat.  He didn’t speak again until he had mounted his father’s horse with the cat draped over the saddle in front of him.  It looked rather embarrassed at the undignified position, but it didn’t try to jump down.

“You said you can feel the Dark working?” Ben asked Leia.  When she nodded, he added defensively, “It is nothing I’ve done.  I’m not a part of it.”

“I know,” she said.  “And I don’t think they’re focused on _you_ right now.  You need to go to him quickly.”

For just an instant, Ben’s mouth trembled; then he stilled its quivering and muttered, “Follow me back to town and wait for us. . . please.  We may need you.”  As soon as Leia nodded, he turned the stallion back toward the settlement and road off at a gallop.

\--

Poe knew that he was dreaming.  In the dream, he was a young child, and he was standing at a frosty window, looking outward.  He felt a vague awareness that something unpleasant lurked just outside the realm of the dream, but he tried not to think about it, for fear he’d awaken himself.  Maybe if he dreamed long enough, the unpleasant thing would be gone when he woke up.

The window he looked through could almost have been the single pane of glass in the little cottage where he lived with his Mama and Papa.  The glass was wavy and bubbly like that window, and it seemed etched with frost the way that window often appeared on winter mornings: ice crystals framing his view of the world beyond.  But this world was nothing like Poe’s small village, which was boring even when frozen to a wonderland of ice.

_This_ icy world appeared to be a wasteland.  The window where Poe stood looked out from high atop a mountain, and close by he could see nothing of what lay below, because a haze of clouds skirted its foothills.  Far beyond those clouds, near the horizon, the ground just barely peeked through the mist.  It looked like the places Poe knew from Bible stories, like the desert through which Moses led the Israelites, or maybe the wilderness where Satan tempted Jesus, only frozen and forever preserved in ice.

Looking downward at what little he could see before the clouds obscured his view, Poe glimpsed a little of the building into which his window had been set.  It looked like a castle, or at least what he’d always imagined the castles to look like when his Mama told him fairy tales instead of Bible stories.  Yet, as with the land, it was composed of a surprising material: instead of stones or bricks, the castle’s walls were made of something shiny and black.  It almost looked like glass, except for the color.  When Poe leaned into the casement and looked up as best he could out the top of the window, he thought that the castle went on above him, too.

_I’m not at the top or the bottom,_ he thought.  _If I’m going to dream about a castle, why not dream I’m at the top?_   It felt like a waste of an otherwise very good dream, but Poe decided to make the best of it.  He said to himself, _This must be the castle of Uller the ice king, from the story Mama told me._   Because who but the ice king would have such a cold palace in such a bleak place?

“Who are _you_?”  The words startled Poe so much, he yelped, and his heart tried to jump right out of his chest and thump against the window pane instead.  Poe swallowed hard and turned around, toward the source of the voice he’d heard.  When he only saw another little boy—a boy wearing very fine clothes and a terrible scowl on his face, but a boy all the same—Poe gave a relieved sigh.  His legs trembled until he caught his breath and steadied himself with his back pressed to the window sill.

“My name is Poe,” he said.  The other boy made some kind of angry noise, something like a grumpy huff.  Poe tried to suppress the sudden urge to laugh, but it came out as a strangled giggle anyway.  The child looked even younger than Poe although he was taller, and he was trying _so hard_ to be scary, yet he didn’t scare Poe in the least.  He looked a little silly, scowling like that. . . and maybe he was a little strange-looking anyway.  His eyes and hair were very dark, and his skin was very pale, even paler than the other children in Poe’s village who teased him for being so brown, especially in the summer.  The strange boy had a big nose and mouth, but Poe decided he liked how he looked.  Strange, but cute, too.

“Are you the prince?” Poe asked him, certain he must be.  After all, only a prince could act so haughty.

But the other boy gave him a surprised look and asked, “What prince?”

“The grandchild of the ice king,” said Poe.  “No one can control him—not his mother or father, or grandmother or grandfather.  And when he doesn’t get what he wants, he loses his temper and _explodes_.”  That had always been Poe’s favorite part of the story, and he grinned.  The other boy blushed.

“I-I do _not_ explode!”  He shoved a hand into his shaggy black hair and raked it through.  “And I’m not a prince.”

“But you do lose your temper when you don’t get what you want?”  Poe kept grinning.  He _liked_ this funny boy.

The other child glared at him, and instead of answering, he went on, “I don’t even know an ice king.  Or any king at all.  Why do you think there’s a king here?  And what are you doing in _my_ dream, anyway?”  This question only delighted Poe even more.  How exciting to be in someone else’s dream instead of his own!

“I don’t know,” Poe said with a shrug.  “I’m just. . . here.  And I thought there should be a king because, well, this is a castle.”  He started to walk toward the boy, but the other drew back a step.  Poe stopped, hurt.  He wanted the boy to be his friend—he had so _few_ friends.

Trying again to get the other to warm up to him, Poe said, “I told you my name, so what’s yours?”  The boy looked at him suspiciously before answering.

“Benjamin.”  He paused, studied Poe, then took a very small step forward again.  “Everyone calls me Ben, though.”

“Well, I’m not everyone, so I’m going to call you something else,” Poe declared.  He thought for a minute, then decided, “Benji.  I’ll call you Benji.”

“Benji?”  The boy wrinkled his large nose.  “It sounds like what you’d name a dog.”  Poe started giggling again, and Ben stared at him.  Then, after a couple of seconds, he laughed too.

When he’d calmed down a little, Poe asked, “If this isn’t the ice king’s palace, and it’s not yours, whose is it?  Is there a queen?”

Ben folded his arms across his chest in an attitude of defiance.  Seeing that the sleeves of his purple tunic were trimmed with gold embroidery, Poe dropped his eyes to his own body in embarrassment.  No wonder Ben didn’t like him—even if he wasn’t a prince, Ben was clearly from a wealthy family, and Poe knew his own shabby clothing couldn’t compare.

But when he looked down at himself, Poe drew in a startled breath through his nose and stared.  He was dressed in lovely clothes too, rust-colored breeches and a shirt made of finer cloth than he’d ever seen before.  He ran a hand down his front with amazement at how white the shirt was. . . and at how nice his brown skin looked against it.  His hand almost glowed, as if it were tinted with gold.

_Because it’s a dream,_ Poe thought.  _I can look better here than I can in the real world.  And I can do things I couldn’t do there.  I can do anything I want, and it won’t matter, because it’s just a dream. . . ._ Poe wasn’t sure what he _did_ want to do, other than be friends with Ben, but he liked knowing that for once he didn’t have to worry about being reprimanded by an adult for having some fun.

“I don’t know whose castle it is,” Ben was saying when Poe paid attention to him again.  “Just that it’s big, and that there are lots of rooms, so no one ever comes in this one.”  He waved a pale hand, large for his age, at the room.  Poe glanced around them and saw nothing at all in it, besides themselves and the window.  Ben seemed rather proud of himself for having the run of the place, but maybe wealthy people _did_ like having a few empty rooms about, just to show off that they had more space than they knew what to do with.

The starkness of the room made Poe aware again of how cold it was.  He wasn’t quite sure why—no icy breeze seeped in around the window like at his own house, but a dry frigidity seemed to come off the wall and floor as if they were made of ice.  But the wall inside the room was composed of the same black stuff as the outside of the castle, and the floor was made of some stone that was similar, but white with meandering gold veins threading through it.  Poe thought that even stone shouldn’t be so cold, and he shivered.

“Are you cold?”

Poe jerked his eyes back to Ben when the other boy murmured the question.  Despite his haughtiness, Ben looked concerned, at least a little.

“Mm hmm.”  Poe nodded and wrapped his arms around his chest, hugging himself to try to warm up.  Ben kept looking at him a few more seconds; then he turned and moved to climb up into the chair behind him.

The chair. . . ?  Poe made an inarticulate sound of surprise and looked closer.  He had been sure the room was empty, but now a chair really did stand there, and Ben really did sit on it.  It was an odd kind of chair, wide enough for at least two adults to sit in, and made of a dark wood carved with elegant patterns.  Its feet had been shaped to look like some animal’s paws, and the seat and back were cushioned with what might have been velvet.  Having never seen velvet before, Poe couldn’t be sure, but the fabric looked black and plush.

“Where did. . . .”  Poe trailed off and looked at Ben, who watched him expectantly.  Poe swallowed and said, “Where did that chair come from?  It—it wasn’t here before.  Was it?”  Ben just shrugged.

“I made it appear,” he said.  He sounded awfully pleased with himself.  “It’s my dream, so when I want something, I just. . . make it happen.  With my mind.”

“Oh,” whispered Poe.  His dreams weren’t like that; in fact, he was pretty sure he’d never had a dream before where he knew he was dreaming.  He shivered again.  Ben edged to the left of the chair and patted the cushion in the empty space beside him.

“Come sit here by me,” Ben murmured in a voice a lot less haughty than before.  “You’ll be warmer.”  Poe regarded him as suspiciously as Ben had studied him at first, but then he approached the chair and clambered up beside Ben.  Ben’s legs didn’t reach the floor, and Poe’s were even shorter, swinging freely in the open hair.  But he did feel a little warmer with Ben sitting close to him.

Poe told the other boy, “Thank you,” and took the opportunity to study him up close.  Ben’s eyes, with very dark brown irises, looked back.  After a minute, Poe asked, “Do you always dream about this castle?  I’ve never dreamed about being in a place like this—I dream that I’m at home, or in my village or the fields or something.”

Ben nodded.  “I always come here when I dream.  Grandfather says it’s because I’m a—because I’m his grandson.  He always had special dreams, and so did my uncle.  Now so do I.”

“Your grandfather?  Are you _sure_ he’s not a king?” Poe asked, half-teasing and half-hoping.

“You’re so stubborn,” Ben accused with a roll of his eyes.  “He’s a farmer, not a king.  But he—”  He broke off mid-sentence, and his brown eyes opened wide.

Poe frowned and started to ask, “What?” but Ben shushed him.

“Shh!”  He flapped a large, clumsy-looking hand, and Poe’s frown because a scowl.  He didn’t like being shushed by anyone, especially not by another child.  He was about to speak again, but then he heard what Ben apparently had: someone or something moving just outside their room, in some other part of the castle.  It sounded a little like very heavy footsteps but also like something big. . . slithering, or being dragged, or both.  Poe shuddered, not from cold but from the first fear he’d felt in this strange dream.

Then Ben put his arms around him.  Maybe he thought Poe still needed warming up, or maybe he meant to comfort Poe’s fear, but he achieved both.  Ben’s body heat warmed Poe as he pressed against the larger boy’s chest, and something about being wrapped in Ben’s long arms made Poe feel safe, even from the monstrous thing moving outside.

_This is Benji’s dream,_ Poe told himself, _and when he wants something to happen, it happens.  He won’t let anything hurt me._

Finally, the sounds faded as the thing moved on, like it was making its way down a hallway or corridor leading away from their room.  Poe had put his arms around Ben too, and he didn’t let go even when silence fell around them.

“What _was_ that?” he whispered in Ben’s rather large ear.

“I. . . I don’t know,” Ben admitted in a mumble.  “I hear it sometimes, but I’ve never seen it.  It’s never come in here and found me.”  Poe didn’t like hearing that, because now Ben sounded a little frightened too, like maybe he _didn’t_ control everything about his dream world.  But then Ben hugged Poe a little tighter and whispered, “I won’t let it find us, ever.  I told Grandfather about it, and he said that if I’m quiet, it won’t suspect anyone is in here, and it will leave me alone.  It has a whole big castle, it won’t notice us in one little room.”

Poe remembered Ben saying that his grandfather had “special dreams” too, and he asked, “Does your Grandfather know what it is?  Has he been here too?”

“A long time ago.”  Ben had begun rubbing Poe’s back a little, and Poe leaned his head on the other boy’s shoulder.  Ben went on, “He didn’t tell me what the thing out there is, just that I shouldn’t bother it.  But if it does ever come in here, all I have to do to get away from it is just. . . wake up.  It’s only a dream creature.”

Poe shivered again and murmured, “I think _it’s_ the king.  Not the ice king, but the king of this castle.”

“It won’t hurt you,” Ben told him.  He curled one arm around Poe’s back and brought his free hand up to stroke the smaller boy’s hair.  “I won’t let it.”  Poe smiled and snuggled his head against Ben’s shoulder.

“You’ll protect me?”

“Yes.  I’ll protect you.”

“Does that mean I can be your friend, Benji?” Poe persisted, now with a teasing lilt to his voice.

Ben huffed but then muttered, “Yes, if—if I can be yours.  I don’t really have any friends.”

“Well, now you do,” Poe proclaimed, but Ben fell silent, and his hand stilled in Poe’s hair.  Even after knowing Ben only a short time, Poe was already learning how to read him, and he lifted his head to give the other boy a questioning look.

“What’s wrong?” Poe whispered.

Ben bit his lip before asking, “What. . . what if I never see you again?  We’ve never had the same dream before, so maybe we never will again.”

Poe considered this, but there in Ben’s arms, it didn’t scare him any more than the thing outside did.  He and Ben were friends now, and nothing could keep friends apart.

“I’ll see you again,” he promised.  “I’ll come back here when I dream, all right?  This can be our place, where we can meet each other.”

“All right,” Ben whispered.  He didn’t sound convinced, but when Poe laid his head back on Ben’s shoulder, the larger boy stroked his hair again.

After a few moments, Poe thought of something else and asked, “Do you know where we are?  Did your grandfather tell you?”

“Kadath,” Ben told him.  “This land is called Kadath.”

“Kadath,” Poe murmured thoughtfully.  “Well!  Now that I know its name, I can come back!”  It made perfect sense to him, and he spoke with such conviction, Ben nodded.

He hugged Poe close to him and whispered, “Poe?  Do you _promise_ you’ll come back?”

“Mmhmm.”  Poe lifted his head so Ben could see his smile.  “Benji, I _promise_.  I’ll come back to you every time.”

\--

To be continued


	17. Chapter 17

Kylo galloped his father’s horse toward town as fast as the animal would go.  In order to stay on, Hux had to dig his claws into Han Solo’s saddle so deep, they would leave permanent puncture-marks in the fine leather, but Kylo wasn’t thinking about the cat, nor about his father’s saddle.

He tried to be angry with Poe.  Poe _was_ a little fool for leaving Kylo’s protection on Samhain in the first place, but he was an outright imbecile for venturing into the damned woods.  _What the hell did he do that for?_ Kylo swore as he neared the settlement.  _Just to make my life that much harder?  To make me come save him before he rejects me for the final time?_   He knew he wasn’t being fair to Poe, but he _wanted_ to be angry.  If he wasn’t raging, Kylo would be terrified.

He had felt the same vague stirrings of the Dark his mother had, though with deeper perception than she possessed, as soon as Poe left the cottage and Kylo could focus on something besides the witch hunter.  He hadn’t been surprised the Dark witches were at work, and he assumed they were probably after him, preparing for yet another attempt to bring him back into the coven, or else an attempt to destroy him if they had finally given up on winning him back.  In his arrogance, Kylo hadn’t worried much about them either way: he knew he was strong enough to resist their pull from afar, and most of them wouldn’t dare leave the safety of the woods to come after him.  Dooku did, of course, and Maul might take the risk, but Kylo could take them both on if necessary.

No witch would dare to strike Kylo’s family either; his mother and father were too prominent in the settlement.  Harming them was too much of a risk, for it might lead the anxious townsfolk finally to mount an attack on the suspected coven in the woods.  What’s more, if anything happened to Leia Organa, her father would know it, instantly. . . and even the High Priest of the Dark coven would cower if Anakin Skywalker came to avenge any harm that befell his daughter.  Kylo smiled grimly, and a bit wistfully.  No, they wouldn’t do anything to cross Anakin, and Kylo wished the grandfather he idolized was with him now.

_They tried to use his beloved to get to **him** once too,_ Kylo thought, _but he was too wise to let them.  If only **I** hadn’t been so foolish as to let Poe go, to assume he really would go back to the Hunters’ Council, to assume they wouldn’t lure him in and—_

Kylo reached the edge of town before he could finish the thought or speculate further on what they had done to Poe.  He had felt it, a stab of agony that made the powers within him feel like ice crystalizing in his veins, and an emotional hurt that seared him to his core.  One of the Dark witches had hurt Poe, badly, but Kylo couldn’t tell how.  He only knew that his soulmate still lived, and that he wouldn’t live much longer without aid.  Kylo had bolted from his cottage as soon as the pain subsided enough for him to walk.  Hux meowed after him, wanting to come too, and Kylo gestured for him to follow without stopping to wait for the cat to catch up.  Hux usually preferred to stay at home when his master went out, but Kylo was too distracted to think of questioning his company.

Now in town, Kylo galloped past the old stables ( _where I saw Poe in person for the first time_ , Kylo remembered with another twinge of pain), then hauled on the reins to stop the horse and turn it back.  His father was waiting there at the stables, along with Chewie and Maz.  Seeing Maz made Kylo feel slightly better, and he thought back to what she had told him: _Take care of him, **protect** him—he’ll need you._

_I didn’t protect him,_ Kylo accused himself.  _I should have listened to her. . . ._

“Where is Poe?” he asked his father.  Kylo slid down from the horse’s back even before it came to a standstill, and Hux leapt down with a “mmrowl” of suppressed panic.  “Where did you see him last?”

“At the inn,” Han said, grappling for the stallion’s reins, which Kylo hadn’t thought to hold on to.  “I didn’t see where exactly he entered the woods, but it was near there.”  Kylo nodded and started for the inn, a couple buildings away, but then he paused and looked back at his father.

“Thank you,” Kylo muttered.  It was hard for him to say, but for once, Han hadn’t disappointed him.  He deserved a show of gratitude.  Han stared at him, then nodded as well and gestured toward the inn in an irritated way.

“Well, go on!  That Poe’s as impulsive and stubborn as you are, so he’s probably gotten himself into all kinds of trouble by now.”

Kylo thought that if he was stubborn and impulsive, he’d gotten those qualities from Han himself, but it wasn’t the time to argue.  He and Hux hurried past the inn then along the side of the building to where the edge of the forest began.  After looking around to be sure no one else was in sight, Kylo slipped a hand into the pocket of his coat and drew out a small pouch he’d sewn together around the lock of Poe’s hair he’d cut the day before.  Kylo had pierced the fabric with a pin whose head was topped with a fleck of amethyst crystal, and the pouch hung from a long piece of thread.  He held it out with the string pinched between his finger and thumb, letting the pouch hang down like a pendulum.  It could lead him to Poe— _if_ Kylo could calm himself enough.  As it was, his hand trembled with anxiety and impatience, and the whole bauble quivered.

Kylo closed his eyes, took several slow breaths, and forced his mind to settle the way his grandfather and uncle had taught him when he was young, before he ever thought of running away to the coven.  Finally, he felt collected enough to open his eyes and study the bauble again.  Now, instead of quivering, it was swinging in a smooth arc, the circle it circumscribed off-center with the greater radius pointing on a diagonal into the forest.

“This way,” Kylo growled at Hux.  He pushed past the first brush growing at the margins of the forest, and the cat followed him.

Pausing frequently to consult the bauble, Kylo tracked Poe through the woods.  At times, his path crossed spots littered with small broken branches and disturbed leaves, and he knew Poe had passed that way. . . passed in a hurry, fleeing whatever had ultimately caught and hurt him.  Kylo’s fear and rage heightened every time he encountered such evidence, and he had to force himself to remain attuned to the motions of the bauble rather than just start hacking his way through the forest at random.

But eventually Kylo reached a point where he needed the bauble’s guidance less and less, then not at all.  He could _feel_ Poe, weak as his life force was.  Besides, this part of the forest was familiar and only grew more so the farther he went.  Soon, he knew exactly where Poe had gone, and he shoved the bauble back into his pocket and nearly ran toward the clearing where he had spent so much of his childhood and where he had held his beloved so recently.

He found Poe collapsed just inside the clearing; even though he could sense that the hunter wasn’t dead, Kylo nearly panicked anyway because Poe looked so lifeless.  He ran to Poe’s side and dropped to his knees to take the limp, cold body into his arms.  Poe seemed to have been struck down while fighting back; his Bible lay on the ground near his gloved hand, and Kylo saw the grip of a pistol just inside Poe’s open satchel.  But of course a merely human hunter stood no chance of defeating one of the powerful Dark witches of the coven, not alone.

Kylo held Poe up against his chest with his right arm curled under the smaller man’s shoulders and Poe’s head resting on Kylo’s upper arm.  Poe’s tan skin was washed out and tinted with blue, the color deepest around his lips.  Kylo pulled off one of his own gloves and pressed his fingertips to the pulse under Poe’s jaw, and bent his head to put his cheek close to Poe’s pale lips.  He couldn’t feel Poe’s breath at all, but he did feel a faint heartbeat. . . only one beat every few seconds, far too slow to be keeping a man alive.  Poe _should_ be dead—from hypothermia, probably, judging from how cold he felt—but somehow, he still lived.

“I have to hurry, or he _won’t_ live for very long,” Kylo muttered, as much to himself as to Hux.  He turned his head to press his lips against Poe’s; tears started in Kylo’s eyes to feel the iciness of those lips, but he hoped that some magic in his kiss might help keep Poe alive until Kylo could get him to somewhere safe, where he could deduce the spell used on Poe and use his own magic to counteract it.

_Mother’s house would be the closest,_ Kylo decided.  Although he’d much rather take Poe to his own home, there wasn’t enough time.

After pulling his glove back on, Kylo fumbled to scoop up Poe’s Bible and shut it—he glimpsed the lock of his own hair between the pages before they closed, but didn’t really process the sight—and he shoved the book into Poe’s satchel with his other belongings.  He placed the satchel in Poe’s lap, slid his free arm under the hunter’s knees, and stood, lifting Poe in his arms.  Despite his small stature, Poe’s muscular and lifeless body felt heavy in Kylo’s grasp.  He knew he could carry Poe as far as his mother’s house, but it would be slow going and he would likely have to stop frequently to rest.

_He doesn’t have time for that,_ Kylo thought.  _He needs treatment right away!_   He looked down at Hux and jerked his chin up.

“Get on,” he growled.  “You won’t be able to keep up.”  Hux gave him the same tired, infinitely patient look he’d had as a human—although, to be fair, most cats excelled at that look as well—then crouched and leapt from the ground up onto Kylo’s back.  Kylo flinched, but he couldn’t feel the cat’s claws through his heavy coat.  Hux meowed when he had a firm grip; then Kylo curled Poe closer against his chest and whispered the spell that allowed him to rise off the ground.  The levitation spell was fairly simple but infinitely useful as it not only levitated Kylo’s body, but also anything he carried.  Therefore, Poe now weighed next to nothing in Kylo’s arms, and he couldn’t even feel Hux’s weight on his back.

Kylo floated, practically flew, through the woods on the other side of his clearing with Poe held tight and Hux clinging to him and giving an occasional grumbling mew which Kylo ignored.  They soon emerged from the forest into his parents’ fields, opposite from the way Kylo had come into the woods.  Kylo traveled even more swiftly over the cleared land and was at his parents’ back door in moments.  Hux jumped down as soon as Kylo released the spell and his feet rested on the ground again.  He fumbled with the door’s latch using the hand under Poe’s knees but found the door locked.

“Shit!” he swore.  By balancing awkwardly on one foot and bracing Poe’s legs against the side of the house, Kylo was able to hold the hunter up with one arm long enough to pound on the door with his free hand.  He didn’t know if anyone was inside to hear him; his mother might have gone to the inn when she returned to town, rather than come home.  But after several seconds, just as Kylo was about to knock a second time, Threepio opened the door a crack to peer out.  His hazel eyes widened, and he threw the door open all the way.

“Master Ben!” he exclaimed.  “What are you—Master Dameron!  Oh dear, oh dear!  Is he _dead_?”

Kylo gritted his teeth and snarled, “No, but he might end up dead if you don’t get _out of the way_.”  Threepio meeped and stood aside as Kylo pushed past him and strode to the main room of the house, where he was relieved to find a low-burning fire in the large fireplace.  The room was far warmer than it would be if he’d had to start a fire himself.  As he laid Poe carefully down on a fur rug before the hearth, Hux followed him into the room with Threepio hurrying after and casting suspicious looks upon the cat.

“Oh dear, what _has_ happened?” Threepio fretted.  “What’s the matter with him?”

“Hypothermia,” muttered Kylo.  He tore himself away from Poe’s side to add more wood to the fire, then stoke it into a roaring blaze.  “I need you to go to the inn and tell my father I’ve found Poe.  And if Mother is there, tell her too and tell—ask her to come here.  I may. . . I may need her help.”  He crouched at Poe’s side again and stroked the brown curls of hair back from his still face; then he looked up at Threepio and mumbled, “Please.”

The servant stared at him before murmuring, “Yes, Master Ben.  Right away.”

As soon as Threepio was out the door, Kylo jumped up and hurried to his parents’ bedroom, where he stripped the quilt off the neatly made bed; then he returned to Poe and took the satchel’s strap off his shoulders.  After setting the bag aside, Kylo removed Poe’s cloak, gloves, and shoes.  He tossed the cloak on top of the other items, but then looked back at it.  It had fallen with one fold to the side, showing the inner lining where Kylo had made his repairs with neat, even stitches. . . and love knots laced with spells.

“His cloak,” Kylo whispered.  His voice was so hoarse, his throat ached to speak.  He turned to seek out Hux and found the cat sitting on the hearth and watching him.  He meowed, and Kylo nodded.  He went on, “When I mended his cloak, I cast all the protection spells I could on it.  And those are Uncle Luke’s old gloves—everything the man ever owned is probably sodden with Light magic.”  Kylo was completely unaware that he wrinkled his nose when he spoke.  Hux made a sound as if he were coughing up a hairball, and it was fortunate for him that Kylo had never figured out that meant he was laughing.  Kylo turned away from the cat to continue undressing the hunter, speaking as he worked.

“I cast spells over his body too, every time I held him. . . every time I touched his beautiful skin, I traced sigils onto it—”  Kylo choked and fell silent when he lifted Poe’s shirt and saw his blue-tinged stomach and chest, the flesh still so cold even there before the fire.  Kylo got the shirt off Poe as gently as he could, leaving the cross where it was on its chain about the hunter’s neck, then moved down to remove Poe’s pants.  He knew Poe would probably faint with humiliation if he knew Hux was about to see him naked, but he had to be warmed up before Kylo cast any spell to cleanse the Dark magic in him.  Skin to skin contact was the quickest way.

Kylo resumed his mumbling: “All the magic on him must have protected him.  Otherwise, he’d be dead now—he _should_ be dead now.  I only hope that when this coldness is lifted from him, he’ll awaken again.”  As soon as Poe was undressed, Kylo pulled off his own boots and stood to remove his clothing.  _His_ body was nothing Hux hadn’t seen before.  Kylo had realized fairly quickly that he had to think of Hux as an ordinary cat if they were going to spend their lives living in such close proximity, and he thought nothing of undressing, bathing, or doing just about anything else in front of his familiar.  For his part, Hux rather wished Kylo weren’t so blasé about it, but bringing it up would just make things more awkward.  Now he turned his head and stared into the fire—which _was_ rather mesmerizing, he could see why other felines loved so much to watch it—rather than witness either the witch’s or the witch hunter’s nudity.

Once he had stripped as quickly as he could, Kylo lay down on the rug beside Poe and wrapped the quilt around them both.  When they were covered, he pulled Poe’s limp body against himself, drew the quilt even tighter, then lay there with Poe wrapped in his arms and the hunter’s legs intertwined with Kylo’s own.  Poe’s body felt icy cold against Kylo’s bare skin, and the witch shivered repeatedly until Poe’s skin finally began to warm.  With the warmth of Kylo’s body heat, the quilt, and the fire, the witch hunter’s temperature crept up.  Kylo cradled Poe’s head against his shoulder, stroking the smaller man’s hair and tilting his head back every half minute to see if the color was returning to his face.

“He’s getting warmer,” Kylo whispered once he saw that Poe was now merely very pale, not the unearthly blue he had been.  Kylo ran a hand down Poe’s back beneath the quilt, testing the temperature of his skin there.  Still, warming Poe up would do no good if Kylo did not also remove the spell that had frozen him; otherwise, Poe would only grow cold again.  What’s more, his heart beat no faster than when Kylo had found him, and his skin regained none of the warm brown tone it should have with normal blood flow.

Kylo was about to attempt to discover just what kind of spell had been cast upon Poe, but the sound of the house’s front door creaking open broke his concentration.  He lifted his head enough to see his mother coming into the room, followed by Threepio.  The servant stopped and gawked when he saw Kylo wrapped up in a quilt with another man in his arms, their clothes piled up around them, but Leia only grimaced with worry and fixed her eyes on Poe’s sickly face.

“What has happened to him?” she asked.  “A Dark spell?”

“Yes.  Something that nearly froze him—he’s suffering from hypothermia.”  Kylo lay back again and tightened his arms around Poe in a nearly crushing embrace.  “He’s warming up, but I haven’t removed the spell.  I’m not certain what it is, or who cast it.”  He looked down into Poe’s face and added in a trembling voice, “I d-don’t think they expected him to survive—”  Kylo couldn’t continue.

“Threepio, will you brew some tea?” Leia said over her shoulder as she approached Poe and her son.  “Then when it’s steeped, add some cream, and a lot of sugar, please.”

“Yes, mistress,” Threepio said with some relief—either at having something to do, or at being able to escape the awkward scene before him—and hurried off to the kitchen.  Leia knelt down at Poe’s head, facing Kylo, and rested her hand on the hunter’s forehead.

“His skin still feels cool,” she muttered with a frown.

“I know that,” Kylo snapped.  “I’ve done all I can to warm him naturally, but I can’t take off the spell without knowing—”  His mother silenced him with an impatient motion of her fingers, then placed them back on Poe’s face.  Kylo scowled, but Leia had already closed her eyes.  He kept quiet and let his mother do what she wanted.  Despite not being a full witch, she had always been highly sensitive to magic, and perhaps she would be able to sense Poe’s condition better than Kylo could with the distraction of his raw emotions.

After what felt like an endless wait, Leia drew her hand back and opened her eyes.

“It’s a simple elemental spell,” she breathed.

“ _Simple_?” Kylo spat, and she silenced him yet again, this time with a glare.

“I mean that it is only an ice spell, nothing more complex than that.  However, it is a very powerful one, far too powerful for me to influence at all.  You should have no trouble removing it, though.”  She drew back and looked into Kylo’s face.  He could feel a flush on his cheeks from the heat of the fire, and his body was starting to feel uncomfortably warm, but he didn’t dare move away from Poe.

Kylo thought for a moment then asked, “Do you have any wormwood?”  When Leia nodded, he added, “And basil, I’m sure.  I’ll need those, and some salt. . . and a candle.”

Leia told him, “I’ll get them, you stay with him.”  She stood and left the room for a moment, during which Kylo kissed Poe’s lips again.  Now, although Poe’s mouth still felt unnaturally cool, it was not so icy cold, and Kylo allowed himself to hope that they would be able to save him.

Threepio returned with the tea at the same time as Leia brought Kylo the things he’d asked for.  Leia asked the servant to leave the tea for when Poe awakened, which Threepio did before withdrawing again to fret elsewhere in the house.  Leia gave Kylo the herbs, salt, and candle, then sat in a chair some distance away.  Her presence irritated Kylo, but he didn’t feel right asking her to leave after all she had done for Poe.

_And she cares for him too,_ Kylo admitted to himself.  _That may help him, somehow_.

He extracted one arm from the bundle of the quilt and lit the candle with a brush of his fingertip over the wick.  The two stalks of herbs, one of wormwood and one of basil, were dried, and the stiff leaves caught fire easily when Kylo brought them to the candle’s flame.  He dropped the burning stalks on the brick hearth where they could smoke without any danger of setting something else on fire; then he sprinkled the salt over them, all but one pinch.  This he held between thumb and finger, and he fumbled with his other hand to reach Poe’s mouth and gently open it with his thumb.  He dropped the last pinch of salt onto Poe’s tongue.

Once all the purifying ingredients were at work, Kylo drew Poe close to his chest again and bent his head over the hunter’s.  He pressed a kiss to Poe’s mahogany curls, then began to whisper into them the words of another spell, one to lift the curse cast upon his beloved.

He could feel the Dark magic first retreating from his own power, then dissolving from its stronghold within Poe’s body.  Kylo’s whisper faltered with relief, but he repeated the spell three times, just to be certain.  Then there was nothing else for him to do but lie there holding Poe amid the bitter scent of the burning herbs and praying he hadn’t been too late, praying that Poe would awaken in his arms.

\--

To be continued


	18. Chapter 18

Poe didn’t want to wake up; he was afraid of whatever unpleasant thing he had escaped by falling asleep.  But he still felt cold, and a hard shiver shook him out of his dreams.

For a moment, he believed the unpleasantness was all just part of the dream too, because he woke up in Ben’s arms.  Despite the deathly chill that seemed to radiate outward from the core of his being, warmth surrounded Poe: Ben’s body against his, a quilt wrapped around them both, and the heat of a fire beating on the back of Poe’s neck.  Cold or not, Poe felt _safe_ there, and he smiled.

_I dreamed it all,_ he thought.  _I went back to Ben’s house, and we went to bed, and I dreamed all those horrible things—his cat turning into a man, and me being chased by a witch, and Kadath. . . something great and terrible trudging through the halls of Kadath and Ben saying he’d never let it hurt me—_

Then Poe’s drowsy eyes opened wide, and he gasped “Oh!” in a startled whisper, because that part hadn’t really been a dream at all.  It was the _memory_ of a dream, Poe remembering the first time he ever saw. . . .

“Ben?” Poe murmured.  He scrabbled around under the quilt to push himself back from Ben, enough to look up at his face.

“ _Poe?!_ ”  Ben yelped his name and nearly clawed Poe in the face in his eagerness to grab the smaller man’s head and cradle it in his hands.  His dark eyes were wide with near-panic.  “Poe, are you—you’re awake!”

“Y-yes, I—” Poe stammered, but a violent shiver cut off his words.  “Ugh, I’m so _cold_.”

“Oh God, Poe,” breathed Ben.  He clasped Poe tight against him again, almost smothering the smaller man against his chest until Poe managed to turn his head enough to breathe in air from outside the tightly wrapped quilt.

Mistress Organa’s voice drifted down to Poe from somewhere else in the room: “For Heaven’s sake, don’t crush him, Ben.  Here, he needs to drink this tea to warm him.”

Cold as the rest of him was, blood rushed to Poe’s face and warmed it.  Why on Earth was Ben’s _mother_ in his bedroom with them in bed together ( _naked,_ Poe realized with growing horror, _we’re both naked_ ), and why was she offering Poe tea?

_I’m still dreaming,_ was the only conclusion Poe could reach.  _Like one of those nightmares where I’m naked in the middle of a council meeting._   That offered little consolation when Ben pushed them both up into a sitting position on one arm, then steadied Poe while Mistress Organa came into his field of vision and knelt beside him.  She had a cup of tea in her hands.

“Um,” said Poe.  He shivered again, but at the same time, he thought he might faint.

“Don’t try to speak until you’ve recovered more,” she commanded and held out the cup.  “Drink this.”

Poe freed his arms from the confines of the quilt, took the cup, and drank from it.  The tea was warm, diluted with cream, and _very_ sweet.  Poe liked sweets, though, and he sipped at it willingly.  The tea warmed his empty stomach and began to chase away the iciness inside him.

_It isn’t a dream,_ he thought.  _That cold feeling is very real._   As if to punctuate the notion, a harsh “meow” came from behind Poe, and Hux stalked past the fireplace and came around Poe to sit down in front of him.  Poe looked into the cat’s green eyes, then tugged the quilt up a little higher over his bare chest.

_None of it was a dream.  Maul nearly killed me, and I passed out begging God to speak to me. . . to tell me I could love Ben.  And then I remembered—_   Poe bent his head over his teacup as he was rocked with a shudder that had nothing to do with the ice spell.

“You’re still too cold.  Finish your tea,” Ben muttered to him.  Poe glanced up at him to find Ben’s face turned away from him.  He stared at the larger man’s pale, furrowed brow and set jaw; then Poe brought his cup to his lips with a shaking hand and swallowed the rest of the tea.  _He’s angry at me—why?_ Poe wondered.  But he thought he knew.

“You found me, didn’t you?” he asked Ben.  “In the woods.”  Poe set down his teacup, but Mistress Organa immediately swept it up and got to her feet.  Her face looked stern too, but Poe thought maybe she was irritated with her son and not with him.

“I’ll leave you two so you can dress, and get something for you to eat,” she murmured.  “Poe, when you’re strong enough to stand, you can go upstairs to rest.”

“Mistress Organa, I’m fine—” Poe began, but she cast a glance at him that made him fall silent and cringe back into the quilt.  _She’s definitely irritated with me,_ he thought.

“You nearly died, Poe,” she retorted.  “You’re going to eat something—because you haven’t had anything today, have you?”  He shook his head meekly, and she continued, “And then you’re going up to your room to sleep.  Because I’m guessing you didn’t do much of _that_ last night.”

Now that Poe was warmer all over, his face felt like it was on fire when he blushed for the second time.  He tried to stammer an explanation of why he had stayed at Ben’s the night before, but Ben gave him such a glare, Poe gave up on placating either of them and glowered into the fire instead.

“You really should be seen by the village doctor,” Mistress Organa said as she went to the door leading to the house’s kitchen, “but we can’t tell anyone that you were bespelled, and it’s not cold enough yet for you to have contracted hypothermia by natural means.”  She paused at the door and looked back toward them, but her eyes fixed on the cat instead.

“Come on,” she commanded Hux.  “Give them some privacy.”  Hux stared at her, the pupils of his green eyes contracted into vertical ovals by the light of the fire.  When Mistress Organa gestured at him, an impatient ushering motion of one hand, he flattened his ears to the sides of his head, stood, and slunk out of the room.  The mistress followed him, leaving Poe alone with Ben.

Poe didn’t try to speak as Ben disentangled himself from the quilt and stood up.  Ben’s pale skin shone with a sheen of sweat, and Poe realized how uncomfortable he must have been wrapped up by the hot fire.  _Mistress Organa said I had hypothermia,_ Poe thought, _so he used his body heat to help warm me up._   Poe looked up at the larger man, who turned his back to Poe as he began to dress.

“Ben—”

“You should get dressed before they come back,” Ben muttered.  Poe wriggled out of the quilt too and began to put on his own clothing.  It appeared to be undamaged from Maul’s attack.

As he dressed, Poe insisted, “Ben, you have to talk to me.  Were you the one who found me?”

Finally, Ben answered in a snarl, “ _Yes_ , I was the one who found you—in the woods, nearly frozen to death.”  Once he had his clothes on, he turned back to Poe and raked a hand through his hair as he demanded, “ _Why_ did you go into the forest?  I told you to return to the Hunters’ Council!”

Poe wanted to fire back with a hurtful retort, but he held his tongue until he had stood—a bit shakily—and gotten his pants on.  Then he said quietly, “I was on my way to the council, but as I passed through the settlement, I saw Master Dooku going into the forest.”  He paused to see if Ben would show some sign of surprise at that information, but the witch just glared down at his feet while he sat in a chair to put his shoes on.

_But of course he already knows Dooku is a witch,_ Poe realized.  _Ben must have interacted with him at the coven, even though Dooku has been living in town all those years. . . deceiving everyone else._

Aloud, Poe went on, “I followed him, to see where he was going.  Ben, why didn’t you tell me he was a witch?  Why did you submit to his judgement—and why did he acquit you if he knew that—”

“The coven doesn’t want me burned at the stake, they want me to return to them,” Ben interrupted.  “I still thought Dooku might condemn me anyway, out of spite, but it seems that humiliating me was enough satisfaction for him.”  Poe frowned and opened his mouth, but Ben glared at him and added, “And I _had_ to submit to him, what other choice did I have?  If _I_ had accused _him_ of being a witch, who would have believed me?  They would have thought only that it was a desperate ploy to save myself.  _You_ certainly wouldn’t have believed it, because you didn’t believe in witches at all until I forced you to witness the physical proof of my powers.”

Ben lowered his head so that his dark hair hung down around his face, then muttered, “Like Thomas doubting the risen Christ until he could lay his hand in His side.”  He had to know how much the comparison hurt Poe, though at the same time, the hunter bristled at the sacrilege of Ben daring to compare himself to Christ.  In his irritation, Poe almost told Ben the other reason he had followed Dooku into the forest: to tell him that Ben was a witch.  Ben had hurt Poe, and Poe wanted to hurt him back.

But then Poe reminded himself that Ben had rescued him, saved his life and suffered to warm Poe up.  Telling him that Poe had ever considered betraying him, had considered that performing his duty might be more important than protecting his beloved, would accomplish nothing.  It would only be cruel.

As Poe turned away to put on his own shoes without speaking again, Ben asked in a low voice, “Was Dooku the one who attacked you, because he caught you following him?”

“No,” said Poe.  “Ben, I have to tell you what I saw—”

Before he could finish, Mistress Organa called from the doorway, “Are you ready for me to come in?”  Poe hesitated, then decided it probably would be better if she knew what he had witnessed as well.

“Yes, mistress,” he replied.  Ben remained silent and began folding up the quilt.

Mistress Organa returned alone, without Hux, carrying a tray with two more cups of tea and a plate of buttered bread.  She set the tray on a small table near the fire and gestured for Poe.

“Come eat.”  She glanced at her son and added, “You too, Ben.”

“I’m not hungry,” Ben grumbled, but Poe _was_ hungry now that he no longer suffered from the cold.  His tea wasn’t quite so milky or sweet this time, but it tasted wonderful all the same, as did the bread.  Seeing him eating, Mistress Organa’s stern face relaxed slightly; then she turned and glared at Ben until he slunk over and took up the other teacup.

“I must tell you what I saw in the forest,” Poe said after swallowing his mouthful of bread.  “Both of you.”

“He followed Dooku in there,” Ben told his mother, in a tone of voice suggesting he thought Poe was an imbecile.

“I see,” was all the mistress replied.  To Poe, she asked, “Is that why you left your horse with Han in such a hurry?”

Poe nodded and explained, “I saw Dooku going into the woods, behind his house, and I couldn’t follow on horseback.”  After another sip of tea, Poe looked at her and asked, “Do you know if he’s all right—my horse, I mean?”

“Yes, he’s fine.  Han left him in the stables,” Mistress Organa assured him.  “Now what did you see when you followed Dooku?”

Poe murmured, “I tracked him to a clearing—not the one where Ben found me, but a larger one.  Dooku was there with. . . .”  He took a deep breath.  “With eleven other witches, the rest of the coven, I suppose.”  He felt slightly vindicated when he saw Ben’s eyes widen.

_Maybe he thought Dooku was the one who attacked me, just for following him,_ Poe considered.  _But no, it wasn’t just my own foolishness that led to this—and he needs to listen to me._

“They were chanting,” Poe went on, “a Samhain chant to summon the Wild Hunt.”

This time, Ben actually started up from the chair he’d taken, and his mother murmured, “The Wild Hunt. . . .”

“They called for Herne,” said Poe.  “I do not know whom they wish him to hunt, but I thought it might be you, Ben.  Or—or me.”

“So you believe in Herne now, too?” muttered Ben in a tone that scathed Poe.  “Is he not a false god?”

Poe retorted, “I don’t know if he exists or not—and if he does, I don’t know _what_ he is!  But whether he is a false god or a demon or—or a man with last spring’s shed antlers tied to his head, I vowed I wouldn’t let you face him alone!”  Ben’s eyes darted to Poe’s in surprise.

“Then you intended to return to me?”  Ben spoke as if he’d forgotten his mother was even in the room, but Poe remained keenly aware of her presence and answered carefully.

“Yes.  I was going to turn back and tell you what I had heard.  But Dooku. . . sensed my presence, or became aware of me _somehow_.  He sent one of the younger witches after me.  Maul.”  Poe shuddered remembering his terror, and he looked down at his abandoned slice of bread.  “Maul chased me through the forest, and I prayed for the Lord to guide me to safety.  When I found myself in the clearing close to here, I turned to face Maul, but he—he stopped my bullets somehow and then. . . .”  Poe’s voice faltered.

“We know the rest,” Mistress Organa said in a gentle but grim tone.  “The spell he cast upon you was an ice elemental.  After Ben tracked you down and brought you back here, he kept you warm and lifted the spell.”  Poe nodded and bit his lip, still with his eyes fixed downward.  There was more to tell—what he and Maul had said to each other, Poe’s last prayer and his dream. . . but unlike the Wild Hunt, those were not things he thought Mistress Organa needed to hear.

_And Ben’s so angry with me, he probably wouldn’t listen even if I told him,_ Poe lamented.  _Even if I told him my prayer was answered, and the Lord showed me we are meant to be together. . . ._   Poe’s eyes ached suddenly, and when he blinked them hard, he was embarrassed to feel a tear slide down his cheek.  It still felt very cold.

Poe lifted his hand to wipe the tear away on his wrist; then he jumped when he felt Mistress Organa’s small, warm hand touch his shoulder.

“Go rest, Poe dear,” she murmured.

“But the Wild Hunt—” he began, but she shook her head firmly.

“If Herne rides, it will be after the sun has set, and it’s only just past noon now.”  She took Poe’s arm and tugged until he stood up.  “You get some sleep, and I’ll come wake you before evening.  If you feel strong enough then, we can—”

“ _No_ ,” Ben interrupted.  When both Poe and Mistress Organa turned to him, he growled, “Poe, you’re not stepping foot outside of this house until Samhain is past.”

“If anything happens tonight, I’m going to help you fight,” Poe argued.  “Why do you think I didn’t turn and run as soon as I saw that circle of witches in the woods?  I told you, you’re not going to face this alone.”

“You’ve already done enough!”  Ben turned his face away from Poe’s gaze and looked at the fire instead.  “If you were coming back because you felt obligated to defend me—you fulfilled any obligation you had to me when you performed your tests.  You needn’t put yourself in danger again!”

Fresh tears started in Poe’s eyes, and he protested, “Ben!  I am not here out of _obligation_!  I—”  He broke off, then decided that Mistress Organa likely already knew what he was about to say.  Poe swallowed past the lump in his throat and rasped, “I _love_ you, Ben.  When I thought of anything happening to you, I couldn’t bear it.  I had to come back.”

Poe saw Ben’s jaw jut as he clenched his teeth, but Ben said nothing and did not look at him.  Poe drew his arm from Mistress Organa’s grasp and turned away himself.  Seeing his satchel where Ben had apparently dropped it upon carrying Poe in to the fire, the hunter scooped it up and went to the door that led to the stairs.  His limbs felt weak, and his hands trembled from exhaustion as well as emotion, but Poe needed to get away from Ben and his quiet seething.

In the doorway, Poe paused to steady himself on the jamb, and he mumbled without looking back, “I thought my life was about to end, and my last thought was of you.  I prayed that before I died, the Lord would show me that I would not be damned for loving you.”  He drew in a breath that made his throat tremble with suppressed tears.  “And He _did_ , Benji, He let me go back to the first time you said you’d protect me, and the first time I said I’d always come back to you.  So even if you keep pushing me away, I’m going to keep my promise.  I’m going to keep coming back.”

He thought he heard Ben shift in his chair, but the witch said nothing.  Poe left the room with his head bent and his eyes fixed on the polished wood floor as he went to the stairs.

Back upstairs in the guest room where he’d slept before, Poe took out his mother’s Bible and laid it on the nightstand.  He looked down into his satchel at his pistol, then with a shaking hand dropped the satchel on the floor beside the table, against the wall.

Poe undressed down to his shirt before he washed his face and neck with water from the bowl and pitcher on the dresser.  The unearthly coldness had faded completely from his body, yet he still felt drained and exhausted.  He crawled into the bed and lay back with a faint groan of pleasure at how soft and comfortable it felt.  Despite the ache in his heart, the bed brought him some comfort; however, sleep would not come.  Poe stretched out on his back and looked up at the ceiling for a few moments, then hauled himself back up into a sitting position and picked up his Bible.  It fell open to the book of Job, where Poe had, at random, placed Ben’s lock of hair.  Poe decided it was as good a place as any, and he began to read.

\--

When Poe spoke Kylo’s special name, the name only Poe had ever called him and only in their dreams, Kylo had started up from his chair.  _He let me go back to the first time you said you’d protect me, and the first time I said I’d always come back to you,_ Poe had said, and the breath caught in Kylo’s throat.  But before he could speak, Leia clamped a hand on his shoulder.  Kylo’s eyes shot up to his mother’s, furious, and she only shook her head at him, her face so stern that even he hesitated to argue with her.  And then, Poe left the room.

Kylo slumped back in his chair and stared at the empty doorway where Poe had stood as he muttered, “You heard him, didn’t you?  He—he remembers.  You were right, what you wrote me in that letter: Poe was the boy in my dreams, and he’s _been_ in my dreams all this time. . . only he didn’t remember them while he was awake, because. . . .”  He trailed off and let his eyes dropped closed in sudden exhaustion.

“Because they were _magic_ dreams,” Leia finished tersely, “like the ones your uncle and grandfather had.  I know.”

“But now he remembers!” Kylo whispered again.  He opened his eyes and stood.  This time, she let him get up, and he turned to her and growled, “Why wouldn’t you let me speak to him?”

Leia frowned up at him and insisted, “You’re exhausted, and Poe is far more so.  What’s more, you’re angry at him.  He knows it, too.  He doesn’t need our powers of empathy to see it.”

“You’re angry at him as well,” Kylo retorted, “and we both have _reason_ to be angry.  He made a stupid mistake, pursuing Dooku—and Poe’s beyond fortunate that Dooku sent Maul after him instead of going himself.  A curse from Dooku likely would have killed him, no matter how many spells of protection I’d cast on him.”

Leia sighed, deep and heavy, and shifted to face the table, where she tidied up Poe’s empty dishes.

“Yes, I am angry with him,” she admitted, “but our anger will accomplish nothing.  What’s done is done, and Poe’s impetuousness— _and_ his desire to protect you—has given us some valuable knowledge of what may come tonight.  But you and Poe both need time to rest, _apart_.  When I awaken him at dusk, the two of you can talk—if you did so right now, you’re more likely than not to say something you’d regret.”

Kylo knew she could be correct, but he still resented her intrusion, especially when he thought about Poe upstairs, alone and hurting because Kylo had seemingly ignored his profession of love.

Leia went on, “Now sit back down and finish your bread and tea.  Then you’re going upstairs to rest too—in your own room.”

“Mother,” Kylo growled, “stop treating me like I am a child.”

“I will after you stop acting like one,” she responded.  “I’m sure you hardly slept last night if Poe was with you, and you didn’t eat breakfast this morning either, did you?”  At the surly look Kylo gave her, Leia nodded and pointed at his chair until he gave in and sat.

As he chewed the bread and drank his tea, now cold, Kylo mumbled, “Where is the cat?”

“In the kitchen,” said Leia, “where he can have a bowl of cream and a nap of his own in peace.  The poor thing deserves some time to himself.”  Kylo nodded—he certainly didn’t begrudge Hux that, and he’d be safe enough in Kylo’s parents’ house.  When Kylo had finished eating, Leia gathered up all the dishes and looked him over.

“Now.  Upstairs with you, and get to bed.  I’ll wake you and Poe in time for an early dinner before night falls.”

As he got up from the table, Kylo said, “We’ll need to prepare some kind of defense as well.  If they succeed in summoning the Wild Hunt—”

“I know,” Leia interrupted.  “While you rest, I’ll gather the things we might need.”  She gave her son the haughty glance that had always driven his father crazy—not because it was haughty but because it never quite concealed her amusement at having to remind the men in her life that she was just as capable as they. . . if not more so.  Kylo finally gave up on crossing her; he _was_ tired, after all.

“All right.  Is Father coming home?” he asked grudgingly.  Kylo wouldn’t have wanted to admit it, but he preferred to know that his father would be safely at home that night.

“I’ll send someone to the inn to fetch him before dusk,” Leia promised.  “I think I’ll ask Maz and Chewie to come as well—we can trust them, and we may need their help.”  Kylo nodded and withdrew from the room.  Like Han, Chewie had about as much magical ability as a rock, but he was strong and an excellent shot with his bow.  Kylo knew perfectly well that Chewie’s loyalty lay with his father and not with him, but he welcomed the man’s presence all the same.  And Maz. . . with her wisdom and insight, out of all of them, she might be the best prepared to face Herne the Hunter.

“She’s probably as old as he is, anyway,” Kylo muttered as he ascended the stairs to his room.

On the landing upstairs, he paused and looked at the closed door leading to the guest room, where Poe rested.  Kylo laid his hand on it, splaying his fingers so he could press his palm to the wood.  _You and Poe both need time to rest, apart_ , Leia had said, _or else you’re more likely than not to say something you’d regret._   Yet Kylo thought that what he’d _really_ regret was going into his own room alone, leaving a wall between the two of them that he could tear down right now.  He remembered how still and dead Poe had looked under Maul’s spell, how bewildered he’d been upon awakening. . . and how pained his beautiful eyes became when he realized Kylo was angry at him.  Kylo didn’t think he could bear the day and night ahead without seeing Poe’s smile and knowing that the hunter would be all right.

Kylo lifted his hand from the door, then curled it into a fist and rapped on the wood.  He made only a soft noise, but Poe’s voice drifted to him in response immediately: “Come in?”  Kylo’s hand shook as he lifted the latch and opened the door before peering inside.

Poe hadn’t been asleep; he was sitting up in bed, quilt over his legs as he read from the Bible open on his lap.  Before he looked up, Poe dropped a short, slender brown finger to the page he’d been reading, marking his place.  Then he raised his head, but when he saw Kylo there and not Mistress Organa or Threepio, he drew in an audible breath.

“Ben?” he whispered.

“Poe, I—” Kylo started.  He didn’t know what to say.  “Can I—may I come in?”  When Poe nodded, Kylo slipped into the room and closed the door behind him, then approached the bed.  Poe looked up into his face with a expression of hope mixed with apprehension that made Kylo’s heart ache.

Finally, Kylo blurted out, “I’m sorry, I wanted to go after you, but Mother stopped me.  She told me not to disturb you, and she thinks I’m in my own room now, but I couldn’t—I had to see you.”  Poe’s eyes widened just slightly, and Kylo noted that even then, his heavy eyelids eclipsed the upper edge of his irises.  He remembered the first time he looked into those eyes, the night another boy intruded into his very own room in the ice castle of Kadath upon the Plateau of Leng, where Nyarlathotep the Crawling Chaos skulked through the halls and Hastur, the yellow-masked High Priest Not to Be Described, drove away any dreamers bold enough to approach.  When Kylo found Poe there, he knew that something special had allowed the other boy to reach him, and by the time they parted and returned to the waking world, Kylo knew that thing was the thread of fate binding their souls.

Kylo dropped to his knees beside the bed, bringing his face down to a level slightly below Poe’s, and pled, “Poe, please forgive me, and _please_ , call me that name again.  If you really remember our dreams, call me what you call me there.”  Poe looked down at Kylo, and then he smiled.  It was a sort of helpless, uncontrollable smile full of affection.  Kylo’s body went weak with relief.

“You said it sounded like a dog’s name,” Poe pointed out with a faint chuckle, “but I called you it anyway— _Benji_.”

Kylo too broke into a smile that dissolved into mirth, and he dropped his forehead onto the bed next to Poe’s thigh and shook with laughter.

“It _does_ sound like a dog’s name,” Kylo mumbled when he could speak again, “but I love it, because it comes from you.”  He felt Poe’s fingers in his hair, stroking through the long strands.

“Ben, Benji,” Poe whispered, “I forgive you.  And I’m sorry I did something so dangerous and made you worry, but because of it, now I know the truth.  I only remembered the first dream, and I do hope that in time I’ll remember more—but for now it’s enough.  Did you understand what I told you?  I begged God to speak to me, and He did so through that dream.  He showed me that everything you’d told me was true, I’ve known you nearly all my life, and. . . and loving you can never be a sin.”

Kylo lifted his head, and Poe’s hand slipped down to cup his cheek.  Poe’s fingers contracted over his jaw; then the hunter leaned down and kissed him.  Kylo returned the kiss gently, tasting Poe’s rough, chapped lips but not delving into his mouth like he really wanted to.

“Benji,” Poe whispered against his lips, “will you stay with me?  I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep.  Will you stay and hold me?”

“Poe. . . .”  Kylo slipped his arms around Poe’s waist and embraced him; then he pushed himself up to his feet and clambered up onto the bed next to Poe, who slid over to make room for him.  Kylo pulled off his shoes before drawing the quilt up over his legs and tugging Poe close to him by the waist.  Poe cuddled against him with his head on Kylo’s shoulder as Kylo stroked his side and hip.  When he realized he couldn’t feel any clothing beneath Poe’s shirt, even below his waist, Kylo slid his hand down the outside of the hunter’s thigh until his fingertips brushed bare skin.  Poe shivered.

“After I had to undress you to warm you up, did you decide you prefer going without clothes?” Kylo teased him in a murmur.

“I thought it would be more comfortable,” Poe mumbled into Kylo’s shoulder.  Kylo chuckled and squeezed Poe’s muscular thigh, then forced himself to let it go.

“Lie down, my dove,” he whispered, “and sleep.  I’ll stay with you.”  When he lay back on the pillows, Poe curled beside him and kept his head on the larger man’s shoulder.

“Read to me,” Poe told him.  “I want to go to sleep hearing your beautiful voice.”  Kylo looked down at the Bible still open across Poe’s lap.

He read, “In dreams and visions of the night, when sleep falleth upon men, and they sleep upon their beds, then He openeth the ears of men, even by their corrections, which He had sealed. . . .”

“That’s how I know,” mumbled Poe.  “Our dreams and visions.”  He was already half-asleep and not completely making sense, but Kylo knew what he meant.  Still, Job with all his trials and tribulations did not make the most comforting reading, so Kylo thumbed through the book’s thin pages until he found the passage he sought.

“Though I speak with the tongues of men and Angels, and have not love, I am as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal,” Kylo murmured.  “And though I had the gift of prophecy, and knew all secrets and all knowledge, yea, if I had all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and had not love, I were nothing. And though I feed the poor with all my goods, and though I give—”  He faltered, swallowed, and went on.

“And though I give my body, that I be burned, and have not love, it profiteth me nothing.  Love suffereth long, it is bountiful, love envieth not.  Love doth not boast itself, it is not puffed up, it doth no uncomely thing.  It seeketh not its own thing, it is not provoked to anger, it thinketh no evil.  It rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth.  It suffereth all things, it believeth all things, it hopeth all things, it endureth all things.”

Kylo paused and glanced down at the man by his side.  Poe had fallen asleep, his lovely face relaxed and at peace.  Kylo turned his head to kiss the dark curls on the hunter’s brow; then although Poe slept, Kylo finished his reading.

“Love doth never fall away, though that prophesyings be abolished, or the tongues cease, or knowledge vanish away.”  He slid his hands beneath the covers of the old Bible and closed it with care before setting it aside on the bedside table.  As he shifted to wrap his arms around Poe, Kylo whispered again, “Love doth never fall away.”

The thought was comforting, and it gave him hope even with the threat of the Wild Hunt ahead of them.  Kylo closed his eyes, and soon he too fell into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

\--

To be continued


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been meaning to write a story about Herne for at least twenty years now. This wasn't exactly what I had in mind for him back when I was a teenager, but I did always imagine him as being sort of a jackass.

In the late afternoon, Poe awoke in Ben’s arms once more.  This time was different: Poe wasn’t cold at all, and he knew he wasn’t dreaming.

He opened his eyes and pushed himself up into a sitting position, then looked down at the sleeping man beside him.  Poe smiled and stroked Ben’s dark hair back from his face, leaned down, and kissed his temple.  When he whispered Ben’s name, the larger man stirred.

“Mmh. . . Poe?”  Ben’s eyes opened, and he smiled too.

Poe told him, “If your mother told you not to disturb me, you’d better get out of my bed before she comes up to wake me.”  Ben grimaced and sat up beside him, looking over at the curtained window which let in the golden light of the westering sun.

“Yes, it must be late,” he sighed.  “We should get up.”  But before Poe could move, Ben wrapped strong arms around him and held him close.  “I love you,” Ben whispered to him.

“And I you, my well-beloved,” Poe murmured.  He turned his head to kiss Ben’s mouth, earning a surprised moan from Ben before Poe drew back.

Ben breathed, “You really are sure now, aren’t you?  Sure that you may love me without fear.”  When Poe nodded, Ben gave him another smile, this one small and tender.  Yet the smile soon faded, and he bent his head so that his hair fell around his face.  He muttered, “If only there weren’t the matter of the Wild Hunt.”

Poe had finally slipped out of bed and was redressing, pulling on his pants and boots.  He asked, “If someone summons Herne, is it certain that he will come?”

“If that someone is twelve powerful witches, most likely.”  Ben got up too and straightened his clothing.  “The only way we won’t face the Hunter tonight is if none of us is his target—and I’m afraid that is too much to hope for.”

Poe’s happiness with Ben was overshadowed by anxiety, and he asked, “What can we do?  How can we stop him?  And. . . even if we should, to witness the Wild Hunt portends disaster or—or death.”

Ben turned to him and put his large hands on Poe’s shoulders.  “Not for us, my dove, I swear to you.  I promised that I will always protect you, and I will keep that promise.  While we rested, Mother said she would gather supplies to help our defense, and she was sending for Goody Kanata.”

“Good,” said Poe, feeling slightly reassured.  Ben kissed his forehead, then let him go and went to the door.

“Are you ready to go down?” he asked over his shoulder.

Poe picked up his Bible and told him, “Yes.”

Downstairs, they found Mistress Organa bustling around the main room with Threepio following on her heels.  Someone had brought Poe’s remaining bag of belongings in from the stables and left it near the stairs.  Goody Kanata sat in the most comfortable chair near the fireplace, sewing something, and she noticed them before Mistress Organa did.

“Are you feeling better, Poe?” Goody Kanata asked, peering over at him with eyes unnaturally magnified by her thick glasses.  Both Mistress Organa and Threepio turned their heads to stare at the two younger men, and Poe flushed.

“Y-yes, thank you,” he mumbled.

“Good,” she replied with a nod.  “Leia told me about your misfortunate encounter with the witches.  Lucky that young Master Organa is so attentive to your welfare, or you might not have survived.”

“Attentive indeed,” Mistress Organa commented, and Poe’s face grew even hotter.  “I was about to come upstairs to wake you, but I see Ben got to you first.”

“Actually, Poe awakened _me_ ,” Ben muttered, but his mother paid him little attention.

“Dinner is almost ready.  We’ll eat as soon as your father and Chewie get in,” she said.

With some suspicion, Ben asked, “Get in from where?”

“From tying antlers to the roof,” Goody Kanata informed him.

Ben stared at her.  “ _What_.”

“Oh, I’d forgotten that,” Poe murmured.  He glanced up at Ben and explained, “It’s supposed to be a ward against the Wild Hunt—tying antlers to the gables of the house.”

“Lovely,” muttered Ben.  “Father will probably fall off and break his neck.”

But by the time they had gathered around the table and Artoo, the cook, was serving dinner, Master Solo had come in, neck intact.  He grumbled about the ridiculousness of putting antlers on the roof, particularly to ward off something that didn’t exist in the first place, as he took his place at the head of the table.  Goodman Kanata followed him in and sat down as well, but he seemed more interested in dinner than in his friend’s grumbling.

Poe realized just how hungry he was when he smelled the roasted meat—pork this time, not venison!—Artoo had prepared.  _When did I last have a complete meal?_ Poe wondered.  He couldn’t remember, and even the previous day seemed like a lifetime ago after all he had endured.  At Poe’s side, Ben remained quiet and broody, and Mistress Organa seemed distracted as well; yet otherwise, the meal was almost light-hearted.  Master Solo clearly harbored no belief in the Wild Hunt, and if the Kanatas did, they gave no sign.  Goody Kanata occupied herself by passing bits of meat down to Hux, who crouched beneath the table.  Poe almost could forget about the Hunt himself, until his mind would slip back to the chant he’d heard that morning: _Death is but a doorway, and Herne is on both sides._

Nevertheless, Poe ate well, and once he had finished, he felt fully recovered from the morning’s ordeal.  He knew better than to believe that was so; there would be nightmares, he was certain.  _But Ben will be beside me when I sleep,_ Poe thought, _and he’ll make the nightmares go away._   He slipped his hand into Ben’s larger one, unobserved, as they left the table.  Ben looked down at him, surprised with a faint blush tinging his pale cheeks; then he smiled and squeezed Poe’s hand.  Poe felt such love for him, he thought it must be visible to everyone around them. . . and when they joined the others by the fireplace, although their hands had separated, Goody Kanata gave them both such a knowing look, Poe blushed too.

“The sun is nearly set,” Mistress Organa muttered as she came in, the last to join them all.  Even the two servants were present at her request.  The mistress said she wanted everyone together where they could be protected, although Threepio’s nervousness made Poe wonder if he might be a liability.  The manservant paced up and down the room murmuring, “Oh dear, oh dear,” and getting in Mistress Organa’s way when she tried to approach the others.

Finally she got past him and distributed small bouquets of dried herbs to each of them.  When he examined his, Poe recognized witch hazel leaves with a sprig of marjoram; the little bundle had been tied with twine on which were strung dried hawthorn berries.

“Like the antlers on the gables, these three ingredients are said to offer protection from the Wild Hunt,” Mistress Organa explained as she knelt to tie the last bouquet about the neck of Hux, who sat on the hearth.  She heaved a sigh and sank down onto one end of a sofa not quite so fine as the one in the parlor.  Tiny Goody Kanata was sitting in the middle with her enormous husband on her other side.  Ben and Poe had sat on the floor near the fireplace, where Ben had warmed Poe earlier, and the stocky Artoo sat nearby with his short legs folded under him.  Although an empty chair remained, Master Solo leaned against the far wall of the room with his arms crossed, and Threepio just kept pacing.

“You do not sound convinced of their effectiveness,” Goody Kanata observed with a glance at Mistress Organa.

“I am not,” the mistress admitted.  “I wish. . . I wish there had been time to send for Father or Luke.  Or both of them.  Witches of their powers might be able to drive off the Wild Hunt, but all I could do was to prepare a few small wards.”

Ben glared up at her and growled, “And what of me and _my_ powers?”

His mother fixed a glare of equal force on him and retorted, “ _You_ are most likely the Hunt’s quarry—with its full force turned upon you, you couldn’t hope to stand against it on your own, even if you were the most powerful witch on earth.”

“He will not be standing alone,” Poe said in little more than a whisper.  Even so, everyone turned to stare at him.  None of them could be unaware of how he felt about Ben by now, Poe realized with some discomfiture.  He turned to Ben and went on, “I said I would fight beside you, and I will.”

Before Ben could reply, the cat meowed and got to his feet.  Both Ben and Poe looked down at Hux as he paced over to them and sat down again in front of Ben.  He gave the witch an intent, unblinking look that Poe guessed meant Hux was willing to stand beside Ben as well, despite all the difficulty Ben had caused him. . . and the fact that a small orange cat could do little against a ghostly hunting party.  A faint smile crossed Ben’s full lips, and he reached out a hand to touch the top of the cat’s head.

“There _is_ one more charm against the Wild Hunt,” Goody Kanata said abruptly, “but it would take a brave soul to risk its casting.”

“What is it?” Ben asked, giving her a sharp look.

“An old folk tale—although I suppose the Hunt itself is an old tale, as well.”  She looked from Ben to Poe, then back again over the top of her glasses.  “Hail the Hunter in good cheer, and it’s said you’ll be rewarded.”

Poe frowned and asked, “‘In good cheer’?  What does that mean?”

“It means to go out there and call Herne’s attention to us,” muttered Ben, “as if he was any ordinary man on any ordinary hunt.”

“After an eternity of riding through the skies, perhaps that’s all the poor soul wants,” Goody Kanata observed with a shrug.  “In any case, Herne is supposedly impressed by courage, so if you dare to hail him, maybe he’ll consider leading the Hunt after other prey.”

_Prey,_ Poe thought.  The word made him want to shiver.  _But then, I am an hunter too, and I suppose Ben was **my** prey at one time, even if I never meant to harm him._

Ben did not respond further to Goody Kanata’s suggestion, and they all sat making awkward, nervous small talk as evening fell completely and the room grew dark save for the fire and a lantern Threepio lit after a time.  Master Solo eventually sat down, though he kept his arms folded and scowled into the fireplace; he seemed still to be irritated at having been sent up to the roof.  As the darkness gathered, Poe became more and more apprehensive.  He felt a heaviness in the air around him, a physical oppression like the humidity of an approaching storm.  Yet the one time he got up to look out the window, Poe could see the moon, just past full, unobscured by clouds.

The others felt it too.  Hux’s fur bristled, and he sat up on the hearth lashing his tail from side to side.  Mistress Organa sat straight upright as well, folding and unfolding her hands, and Ben’s own large hand clutched Poe’s with almost painful force.  Poe no longer cared if anyone else noticed them holding hands, and he clung to Ben’s just as tightly.

About an hour after the sun had set, they heard a low rumbling begin.  Master Solo muttered something about thunder, and Poe hoped he was right, despite the cloudless sky.  But the rumbling only became louder until Poe knew it for what it was: the sound of countless hoofbeats, punctuated now and then with the warbling howl of a hound.

“It’s real,” Poe whispered.  Wide-eyed, he looked at Ben, who stared down at the floor with a grim set to his mouth even as he squeezed Poe’s hand harder.

“Maybe it’s only—” Master Solo began, but then even he ceased denying what was happening  He got up from his chair and went to stand near the sofa, just behind his wife.  The Dark coven’s chant had served its purpose, and the Wild Hunt had begun.

“Ben!” Poe hissed.  This time, Ben looked up at meet his eyes, and Poe urged, “It’s getting closer—it’s coming _here_ , I know it.  We have to go out and try to stop it before it reaches us and someone gets hurt!”

“You’re not going outside, Poe!” Ben growled back.  “We have Mother’s wards—”

“But what if they are not enough, Ben?” Mistress Organa interrupted him.  “What if we don’t _know_ they aren’t enough, until it’s too late?”

Poe shifted to face Ben head-on and clasped both of the larger man’s hands in his.  “Ben, we can’t take that chance!  I’m not—I’m not going to just sit by when there’s a risk they could hurt your family or take you away from me!”

“You can’t go out there,” Ben pled with him.  “What if they’re hunting _you_ and not me?  And even if they _are_ after me, you could still be hurt.  I’ll go outside and—and hail the hunt like Maz said, but I can’t put you in danger like that.”

“I promised I would stay at your side,” insisted Poe.  “I’m going with you.”  For a second, Ben’s brow furrowed with frustration, but then Hux meowed loudly at him, and Ben’s face relaxed into a small, baleful smile.

“I’m not sure which among the three of us is most stubborn, but this time, I’ll bow to your conviction,” Ben told them.  Just as he finished speaking, the noise outside swelled, and for the first time, the sound of a hunting horn cut through the din.  Ben set his jaw and got to his feet, then reached down a hand to help Poe up.

“Take care,” Mistress Organa told them.

“Maybe you should take some weapons too,” her husband observed with a skeptical look at the Bible Poe clutched in his hand while he and Ben put on coats against the cold night.

Ben muttered, “Weapons would be of no use.  For that matter, Herne would probably be insulted and all the more apt to take us down where we stand.”  So he, Poe, and Hux went out on the night of Samhain unarmed save for one Bible and three bundles of herbs.  Poe didn’t look back as he left the warmth and firelight of Mistress Organa’s home; as much as his brain was screaming at him to stay there, he was afraid that seeing her face would make him lose his courage.

_I can’t let Ben go alone,_ Poe told himself as they stepped outside, where the thunder of ghostly hooves pounded in his ears.  _If this fails and Herne takes him, he has to take me too—and Herne cannot hurt me any worse than Maul did.  The worst he can do is kill us. . . and if Ben dies, I’d rather die with him than live without him._

The night was disconcertingly still.  Poe felt no wind, only the crisp coldness of quiet air, and that stillness seemed unnatural with the sound of the Wild Hunt all around them.  From their vantage point at the top of the hill where Mistress Organa’s house stood, Poe could see much of the open sky.  Around the horizons, something moved and shifted.  At first, it looked to him like clouds lit with intermittent heat lightning, or perhaps the yellow-green lights that were said to dance in the skies of the far north.  Yet the longer Poe looked, the more the motion seemed to form the shapes and figures of ghostly riders, hounds, and horses racing over the tops of the trees.

“Ben,” Poe whispered.  His voice shook—from fear, but also from awe.  Ben’s eyes left the horizon to look down at Poe instead, and he reached for the smaller man’s hand once more.  Both had forgotten their gloves, and Poe was glad to feel Ben’s skin against his own as the witch’s long fingers closed around his hand.  Poe pressed close to Ben’s side, and Hux pushed between their ankles to sit on their feet.  Poe suddenly felt sorry for him, sorrier than he felt for himself or Ben or even the others inside.  They were Ben’s friends and family; like Poe, they had chosen to stand beside him.  But as Ben’s familiar, Hux _had_ no choice: if Ben died, so would he, whether he faced the Wild Hunt or not.

The yearning moan of the hunting horn sounded again, much closer than before and almost right over their heads.  Poe craned his neck upward toward the moon that illuminated the three of them with a cold light, just as it was blotted out by a shadow that reached to cover it.  The stillness of the air grew ever more oppressive, and the hairs raised on Poe’s arms and the back of his neck.  The shadow eclipsing the moon stretched from the horizon upward halfway across the sky, and like those along the treetops, it had a form.

It was a horse, rearing on its hind legs.  Poe could see its open mouth and the slightest points of its ears as they flattened back against its skull.  The horse bore an inhuman rider, a stag with a stupendous rack of antlers spreading out from either side of its head.  Poe stared up at the apparition as if entranced—until Ben cupped his hand around the side of his mouth and called out to it.

Poe winced at the loud call made almost directly in his ear, then gasped and cowered further when the monstrous shadow collected itself and dove downward, straight at them.  He felt almost certain they were going to die right then and there—not even shot down by arrows but trampled under a gigantic horse’s hooves—yet the thump of those hooves on the ground before them told Poe the animal had somehow missed them.  When he forced his eyes open, Poe saw that the horse now standing before them, though large, was not really much bigger than any other stallion.

Yet nothing else about the animal was ordinary.  The horse was black, but its eyes glowed red, and when it snorted with impatience at being reined in, reddish steam condensed in the cold air near its nostrils.  Two more dark shapes huddled near its hooves: hounds as black as the horse, with eyes just as red.

Then there was the rider.  He was, after all, a man; the illusion of a stag somehow mounted on the horse had been created by the antlered headdress he wore.  Wild, shaggy hair that might have been dark blond or light brown fell to his shoulders, and his eyes, like his horse’s, glowed.  Instead of red, they were golden.  Poe remembered Maul’s eyes and shuddered, but the rider’s were even more golden than that, and they shone with a clean light.  He was tall and broad with a masculine face and a muscular chest left bare despite the coldness of the night.  His feet in the saddle’s stirrups were bare as well, and the only garment he wore was a pair of suede breeches fit closely to his legs.  A hunting horn hung down over his chest, and a quiver of arrows against his back.  Poe’s eyes slid back up to his face in fearful expectation. . . but the man was grinning.  His teeth looked very white in the moonlight.

“Well met!” he said as cheerfully as if he was, in fact, just an ordinary man on an ordinary hunt.  He swung his leg over the horse’s back and dropped down to the ground beside the beast.  It snorted more of the glowing steam, but the man patted it on the side of its black neck and came forward.  The horse remained where it was while the two dogs slunk forward at their master’s heels.  They were massive, the size of wolves with the same pointed ears and thick, ruffling fur.  Hux gave a low growl, and Poe cringed again at the idea he might antagonize the hounds.

The man said again, “Well met, Witch Skywalker,” as he came to a stop some feet away from them.  His lips, still smiling, closed over his teeth, but Poe hardly noticed as he turned to look up at Ben in surprise.  _Witch Skywalker?_

Paying Poe no notice, Ben answered in a voice that shook, “Well met, Hunter Herne.”

“And I recognize one of my own here, another hunter,” the stranger commented, again as casual as could be.  Poe’s gaze jerked back to the other man.  Herne was tall, more so than Ben but no taller than Chewie.   Now that he had come closer, Poe realized the antlers were not part of a headdress but appeared to emerge from beneath the tousled locks of hair. . . as if they grew right out of the man’s skull.  Strings of beads and feathers hung from their branches like necklaces would hang from a lady’s throat.

_And I suppose the antlers **do** grow out of his head,_ Poe realized, _if anything ever grows or changes on a. . . a ghost or a demon or whatever he is._   The stranger could be none other than Herne, something else Poe had never believed in now made real.  Looking into Herne’s face, Poe realized that he was handsome, perhaps the most handsome man Poe had ever seen; yet there was an unnerving wildness in his eyes.

“What is your name, hunter?” Herne asked Poe.  He bared his teeth again in another grin.

“Dameron,” Poe breathed.  “Poe Dameron.”

“And why are you here with this witch, Hunter Dameron?”

Poe drew in a breath, then raised himself to his full height before answering, “I was summoned to hunt him.”  Herne’s somewhat manic grin faded, not to a frown but to a merely thoughtful expression.

“Then we have a conflict of interest,” said the Hunter, “because so was I.  Certain Dark witches roused the Hunt from its rest to bring him back to their coven.”  Poe wasn’t really surprised that Herne’s quarry was Ben and not himself, but it chilled him nevertheless to hear the fact stated so bluntly.  Despite his fear—and the fact that crossing a powerful supernatural entity was a stupid idea—Poe took a step forward and flung his challenge up at the antlered being.

“He is mine!  I reached him first, so I hold claim to him.”

“Poe!” Ben hissed in a panicked voice, and he clutched Poe’s hand tighter.  Herne blinked down at Poe for a second, then laughed—not as if he were mocking Poe, but as if Poe’s gumption pleased him.

Still, when he calmed down, Herne replied, “That depends on whose rules we’re playing by, Hunter Dameron.  You have precedent, if that’s what it takes to win the quarry. . . but the Wild Hunt has never followed precedent.”  Herne gestured with one bare hand at the edges of the sky, where the other ghostly huntsmen still traveled in a flurry.  “With us, the quarry goes to the hunter powerful enough to take it.”

Poe despaired at that, for of course Herne was the more powerful hunter.  Poe had no weapons that could have touched the other man.  In the hand not clinging to Ben, Poe still held his Bible, but its power was the Lord’s, not Poe’s.  It did, however, remind Poe to pray.

_Please don’t let him take Ben away from me!_ Poe pled.  _It can’t be Your will for You to let me love him, only to take him away!_

Hux seemed to disagree with Herne’s claim as well, for he hissed and leapt forward away from Ben’s ankles to crouch in front of Poe.  Herne’s two black hounds snarled and barked at the cat, and Hux spat and clawed back at them.  One of the dogs would have jumped him if Herne hadn’t grabbed it by the scruff of its neck and hauled it back again.

“Could you _please_ control your familiar?” the Hunter asked Ben.  He glared down at Hux with all the disdain of someone who preferred dogs to cats, but then his brows lifted and he blinked his golden eyes.  Just as he knew instinctively that Ben was a witch and Poe was a witch hunter, Herne knew what Hux really was too.

“What _did_ you do to the poor man?” the Hunter exclaimed over the raucous barking of his dogs.  “You couldn’t find an ordinary cat to suit you, so you turned him into one?”

“I—it was an accident,” Ben mumbled, and when Poe looked back at him, he was amazed to see that Ben was blushing.

Herne laughed again and cried, “That’s a devil of an accident!  But it makes things simpler.”  He let go of his hound to flick his fingers in Hux’s direction; then abruptly, the human Hux was standing where the feline one had been.  He was still hunched forward in a crouch, and he was completely naked.  The dogs quit their barking and lost all interest as soon as the cat became a man, and Herne appeared oblivious to Hux’s state of undress.  Poe, however, averted his eyes and blushed.  Of course, it was _logical_ —Hux’s clothes had fallen off when he turned back into a cat that morning, so obviously they were not part of the transformation.  Nevertheless, Poe felt distinctly uncomfortable.

“Fuck,” Hux swore as he straightened up.  He blushed a deeper red even than Poe had, and attempted to cover himself in front with his hands.  “Do you _mind_?  Not that I’m not grateful to be cured, but some warning would have been nice.”

Ben muttered, “Here,” and slipped off his coat, then put it over Hux’s shoulders.  Hux shrugged into it and closed it around himself with what dignity he could muster.

“You were the one antagonizing my dogs,” retorted Herne.  “And anyhow, I haven’t cured you.  ‘Tis only temporary until we finish our business here.”

“ _What?_ ” Hux nearly wailed.  “You—you _bastard!_   You’re going to turn me back—”

“ _I’m_ not, the curse your master put on you will take care of _that_.”  Herne stood with arms akimbo and tapped one bare foot on the dead grass.  “For an accident, ‘tis one hell of a curse.  Even I can’t simply _break_ it, and even Wild magic has a limited range.  Once I depart, you’ll be too far away for me to keep you in this form.”

Poe’s pity for Hux grew when he saw the redhead’s lower lip tremble.  Hux bit it nearly hard enough to draw blood and narrowed his green eyes until he looked only angry and not distraught.

“Then I’m doomed to stay a cat for the rest of my life.”

“Not necessarily.”  Herne shrugged and glanced at Ben.  “Did you not tell him about the cure, witch?  Or are you too lazy to go looking for another familiar?”

“I don’t know the cure!” Ben snapped.  “I’ve been searching for it ever since—ever since this happened!”  Herne stared at him then broke into another fit of merry laughter.

“A Skywalker casting curses he can’t lift!” he chortled.  “Aye, you three have made this the most charming Hunt we’ve had in centuries.”  He grinned at them, eyes almost literally sparkling.  “There _is_ a cure, but not one I can help with.  ‘Tis the old favorite among witches: find true love, take love’s true form, that one.”

Ben made a frustrated noise and muttered, “I had begun to think of that. . . .”

“So I’ll be cured by true love’s first kiss?” murmured Hux.

Herne arched an eyebrow and said, “Er. . . not exactly.”  At the blank looks all three of them gave him, the Hunter chuckled again.  “What sweet young innocents you all are.  A kiss wouldn’t be strong enough to break a curse like _this_.  You’ll have to get your true love to bed you.”

“Oh,” mumbled Ben in an embarrassed way.  Poe blushed, again.

“ _What?_ ” Hux screeched for the second time.  “How the hell am I supposed to meet someone, fall in love, and get them to—to do _that_ when I’m only human one night a _month_?”

“Improve your attitude for a start,” Herne observed.  “I’ll wager the ‘falling in love’ part will be the most difficult, really.  I myself wouldn’t be adverse to, ah, deflowering you, but since I’m not in love with you, t’wouldn’t do you any good.”  Poe wasn’t sure if Herne meant it or not, but the way he grinned at Hux made the redhead flush all the way down his neck.

“I think I prefer being a cat,” he mumbled.

“As amusing a diversion as this is,” Herne went on, “the hour is growing late, and my hunting party is growing restless.  We need to settle this matter of which hunter takes the quarry—and which turns away empty-handed.”  All humor had departed from his face, and his golden eyes gleamed as he fixed them on Ben.  “Twelve Dark witches summoned _me_ , Hunter Dameron.  Who called _you_ to hunt this witch?”

“His mother,” Poe replied.  Herne’s eyes flicked from Ben’s face to his.

“His own mother, truly?”

“Yes,” said Poe, “out of love for him—because she knows I am the only witch hunter who has never condemned a witch.”

“I _see_ ,” Herne mused.  He smiled, apparently pleased at that bit of trickery.  “And so if I take him back to the coven, the lady’s heart will be broken?”

“Hers. . . and mine,” Poe whispered.  The slightest softening of Herne’s gaze led Poe to go on, “Have you ever loved anyone, Herne?  _Can_ you?  I love Ben—Kylo, and if you take him back to the coven, you’ll have to take me too.  Or else I’ll go there myself and fight to bring him back, and you will have led your Hunt after him for nothing!”

“No, not for nothing,” Herne countered with a shake of his antlered head that made his beads clatter.  “The Hunt is its own reward—I care not what becomes of the prize after I’ve won it.  You’re a far different breed of hunter than I, Dameron. . . and perhaps that means the rules of this Hunt should be different too.”  Poe caught his breath with hope.

“Please,” Poe begged Herne as he had God.  “Please don’t take him away from me!”

One of Herne’s hands dropped from his hip to caress the head of a dog as he pursed his lips in thought.  The other hound bumped Herne’s thigh with his nose until the Hunter chuckled and petted it as well.

“The Hunt must have a quarry,” he finally said.  “If I leave this witch to you, Hunter Dameron, will you name another man you’d have me chase?”

“I-I. . . ,” Poe stammered before falling silent.  How could he choose another person to be subjected to the terror of pursuit by the Wild Hunt?  Who could deserve such a fate?

_Maul,_ Poe thought suddenly.  _He almost killed me, and I could have revenge._   But immediately, he remembered God’s commandment not to seek revenge, for vengeance belonged to Him.  Still, the temptation was hard to resist. . . until Poe thought of Dooku, who had sought to humiliate Ben during his testing then summoned Herne to chase him down and drag him back to the coven.

_And he won’t stop trying to bring Ben back to the coven. . . or to kill him,_ Poe realized.  _Even if Herne lets Ben go free, Dooku will find some other way to come after him._   Poe felt some guilt because he knew in his heart that he _was_ seeking vengeance, but also he could not bear to give Dooku the freedom to continue tormenting his beloved.

“Master Dooku,” Poe said to Herne in a firm voice as he met the glowing golden eyes.  “He will be your quarry.”

“Tyranus,” came Ben’s deep voice from just behind him.  “His witch name is Tyranus—High Priest of the Dark coven.”

“Ah!”  Herne’s grin returned as he declared, “So you will turn the Hunt back upon the one who summoned it!  A fine twist of fate—I like it!”  He threw his head back and cackled with delight before moving back to his horse’s side.  Herne lifted one bare foot into the stirrup, then sprung from the ground onto the stallion’s back.

“Well then!” he called down to the three men before him.  “Perhaps we’ll meet again one night.”

“I hope not,” muttered Hux; then he flushed all over again when Herne winked at him.  The Hunter drew back on his reins, and his stallion reared before wheeling about and cantering away from them, down the hill.  Herne’s two hounds raced after him, baying; then all four suddenly were running not downward but upward through the empty air, back into the sky.  The Hunter lifted the horn at his chest to his lips and blew it in a single, long peal just before he and his beasts disintegrated into shadow.

As Poe stared at the sky, the shifting shadows and lights along the horizon began to congregate in one spot.  _Over the woods,_ he realized, _over the coven._   The rumbling of phantom hoofbeats heightened; then all three young men on the hill cringed when there came a sudden sharp crack like that of lightning striking somewhere close by.  But they saw no lightning, and the hoofbeats began to fade along with the moving shadows.  Poe heard one last blast of a hunting horn sounding from far away.  After that, all was still.

The oppressive feeling in the air faded too, until the night was only cold and quiet.  It would be Samhain yet for a few more hours before All Saints’ Day came at midnight, but all the day’s magic had gone with Herne the Hunter.

Abruptly, Hux disappeared, and Ben’s coat collapsed in a heap in the ground.  After a few seconds, a disgruntled orange cat stuck his head out from underneath it and meowed.

When Ben didn’t move and only stood looking up into the empty sky, Poe bent and lifted the coat off Hux.  The cat slunk to the front door of the house, sat down in front of it, and meowed again.  Poe ignored him and reached his arms around Ben to put the coat over his shoulders.

“You must be cold,” Poe murmured.  Ben finally lowered his head to look down at the smaller man.

“Poe,” Ben whispered.  He brought his hands—which were, in fact, quite cold—up to Poe’s face.  His fingers clenched behind Poe’s jaws; then Ben bent his head and crushed his mouth against the hunter’s.  Poe felt as if he were about to dissolve with relief and joy under the pressure of Ben’s kiss.

Hux yowled impatiently until Ben let go of Poe’s face, took his hand instead, and opened the front door to lead him inside.

\--

To be continued


	20. Chapter 20

Mistress Organa practically met them at the door, eyes wide in a mixture of hope and anxiety.  Ben ignored her frantic questions for a moment while he turned and latched the door; then he faced his mother and announced, “The Wild Hunt has passed.  Poe drove it away.”

When everyone else in the room turned to stare at Poe, the hunter flushed and muttered, “Th-that’s not exactly what happened.  Ben—”

“Why don’t you all sit down again,” Goody Kanata interrupted, “and then tell us what _did_ happen?”

Poe nodded and took Ben’s arm to pull him back over to the fireplace, where they had sat before the arrival of the Wild Hunt.  Hux followed but lay down facing the fire, his orange furry back to all the others, and Mistress Organa returned to her chair.

“Ben hailed the Hunter, as you suggested, Goody Kanata,” Poe began, but she interrupted him again—this time with a slight smile.

“Call me Maz,” she said.  “Everyone else does, you know.”

“All—all right, Maz,” Poe said, with difficulty.  All his life—from when his mother first began to educate him all the way up through his training by the Hunters’ Council—he had been taught to address his elders with respect, _always_.  Calling Goody Kanata by her Christian name felt like blasphemy.

He continued, “Ben called out when the Wild Hunt drew near, and. . . and Herne came to us.”  Poe said it with some amount of wonder; now it felt like a wild, impossible dream.  “He told us that the Dark witches had summoned him to hunt down Ben and bring him back to the coven.”  Mistress Organa pressed her lips together in a grim line at those words, but she did not look surprised.

“And then Poe—Poe challenged him, challenged the _Hunter_ ,” breathed Ben.  Poe blushed again and glanced at him.  He was amazed to see the expression of awe and adulation on Ben’s face.  Ben went on, “When Poe said that I was _his_ quarry and Herne could not take me, Herne told him to choose someone for him to hunt in my place.”  Once more, everyone’s eyes turned to Poe.

When no one else spoke, Master Solo grumbled impatiently, “Well, _did_ you?”

“Yes.”  Poe’s voice felt to a whisper thick with guilt over what he had done, but also full of joy in knowing that Ben was safe.  “I chose the High Priest of the coven.  Master Dooku.”  _Tyranus_ , he added silently, but he was loath to say the man’s witch name aloud, as if speaking it might draw Tyranus away from Herne’s grasp and directly to them instead.

Mistress Organa’s eyes widened, but she controlled her voice as she asked, “And did the Hunter. . . agree to your choice?”  Poe nodded without speaking.

“Good God, man!” Master Solo exclaimed.  “Do you mean Dooku is. . . well, what happened to him?”

Poe could only shrug, so Ben muttered, “That sound you heard just now, the noise like lightning hitting a tree.  I believe that was the sound of Herne claiming his quarry.  Poe gave him no instructions on what to _do_ with Dooku, so perhaps Herne carried him off somewhere or—or struck him dead on the spot.  I suppose we’ll know come morning.”

“What was he like?” Maz asked after all were silent in contemplation for a moment.  She fixed her magnified eyes on Poe.  “Herne the Hunter.  Was he impressed by your courage, young Dameron?”

“I. . . I suppose.”  Poe dropped his head to look down at his hands, folded in his lap.  “He was. . . kind to us, or I think he meant to be, in his own way.  But I think we amused him as well.  I believe he is lonely, even amid his animals and huntsmen.”  Poe glanced over at Hux, who still had his back turned.  Poe thought he saw the cat’s fur bristle slightly, but it might have been a flicker of the firelight.

Sounding rather skeptical, Ben repeated, “Lonely?  Hmph, perhaps, but mostly, I think he’s mad.  Mad and _wild_.  I don’t understand why he comes when he’s summoned to do some humans’ bidding, even if those humans _are_ witches.”

“That is the curse he bears,” said Maz.  She tipped her head forward to look at Ben over her glasses.  “Do you not know his legend?  Don’t tell me Master Skywalker was so neglectful in your training as to overlook it.”

Poe started when he heard that name again.  _Herne said Ben was a Skywalker. . . and now Maz says that another Skywalker trained him?  Where?  And. . . which one?_   Poe wasn’t sure he really wanted to know, yet he knew he wouldn’t be able to resist asking Ben his questions when they were alone.

Meanwhile, Ben had lowered his eyes belligerently, and he mumbled, “No, he told me, probably.  I never paid much attention to his stories.”

“Oh, Ben,” sighed Mistress Organa.

Maz just chuckled.  “Then as punishment for not applying yourself to your studies, you must listen to _me_ tell the story—but only in brief form.  It’s growing late, and we need to get back to the inn.”  Her husband rumbled some reply, although Poe couldn’t tell if it was confirmation or refutation.

“Herne is a ghost,” Maz went on, “but he was human once, the keeper of the British king’s forest many years ago.  He was a favorite of the king because of his skills—not only was Herne the finest hunter in the king’s party, but he also was a skilled woodworker.  From an ordinary chunk of wood, he could carve the most intricate designs, plants and animals that seemed ready to spring to life at any moment, and he could build anything he put his mind too, given enough time and wood.”  Her voice had taken on the enchanting tones of a storyteller, but then she added flatly, “Of course, the rest of the king’s huntsmen hated him.”

“Of course,” muttered Ben.

Maz gave him a faint smirk but fixed her eyes on Poe’s as she continued, “One day, while the king and his men were out hunting, the king shot a stag but did not kill it.  The animal charged at him, and Herne got between them to take the blow for his liege.  The stag’s antlers gored Herne through the chest, and he lay near death.”  Now her smirk spread into an actual smile.  “But then a witch appeared.”

“A witch?” Poe breathed.  He did not know the legend either; his education on Herne had begun and ended with his role in leading the Wild Hunt. . . which, of course, Poe hadn’t believed in at the time.

“Yes, a man named Urswick who lived in the forest.  The king pleaded with him to save Herne’s life and offered to reward Urswick handsomely, so naturally the witch agreed.  Another in the party had killed the stag with his knife as it attacked Herne, and now Urswick took the blade from him and sawed off the top of the beast’s skull.”

“Goodwife Kanata, _please!_ ” Threepio explained.  His face had taken on a slightly green hue.  Maz ignored him.

“Urswick then tied the skull—with the stag’s antlers still connected—onto Herne’s head, then bade the rest of the party carry the hunter to the witch’s cottage in the forest.  There they were to leave Herne for one month, after which Urswick promised he would be healed.  But after the king and his manservants had departed, Urswick took the other hunters aside and asked them if they wanted to make a deal with him as well.  He had promised the king to save Herne’s life, but he told the jealous men that if they paid him enough, Herne would lose all of his skills and therefore no longer be favored by the king.  The hunters agreed.”

Poe scowled without realizing he was doing it, for he knew all too well the cruelty of jealous men.

“One month later, Herne returned to the king’s court,” said Maz, “but as Urswick had promised, all Herne’s skills as a woodsman were gone.  He could no longer strike the broadest target with his arrows or coax any shape from pieces of wood. Thus, he fell out of favor with the king, and the other huntsmen tormented him with their mocking and jeers.  In his distress and confusion over this turn of events, Herne began to behave erratically—and when one of the pages witnessed him wearing the stag’s antlers on his head again, the court feared he’d gone mad.  The king approached Herne with the court physician and begged him to submit himself to treatment, but Herne grew wild and bolted into the forest.  When the search party found him the next day, he had hanged himself from an oak tree, still wearing the antlers.”

Poe stared at her, but in his mind, he saw Herne’s wild golden eyes.  As frightening as the ghostly Hunter had been, Poe pitied him immensely, and he wished they’d spoken to him more kindly.  Had _anyone_ shown Herne kindness in all the years since his king scorned him, as if Herne’s worth had come only from his skills as a woodsman?

Ben, who did not seem so moved, asked flatly, “Then what?  How did he go from hanging in a tree over _there_ to hunting _me_ over _here_?”

Maz shot him a somewhat judgmental look and replied, “Then Urswick cursed the other huntsmen too, for he said they had driven Herne to suicide.  Herne’s ghost, antlers and all, began to haunt the forest and continued to do so until he had hunted down all the other woodsmen and forced them to join his hunting party.  It’s said that they were the first to become part of the Wild Hunt, and since then it has grown by hundreds of souls.  Herne still haunts the forest of his homeland, but when he is summoned or when a catastrophic event is about to occur, he will lead the Wild Hunt to any place in the world.”

“But _why_?” Poe protested.  “Why was _he_ cursed—was it for the sin of suicide, or is it something Urswick did to him?  Can no one cure him?”

“Perhaps he doesn’t _want_ to be cured,” suggested Ben, turning to Poe.  “We saw for ourselves how much he loves the Hunt.  I believe he’s still quite mad.”

“Even so,” Poe muttered.  “It isn’t—isn’t fair.”

“No,” Maz agreed, “and as to your questions, I do not know the nature of the curse.  Urswick was almost certainly a Dark witch, but if half the stories about Herne the Hunter are true, he possesses far more power than Urswick ever had.  If he were a living man, he would be considered a witch himself. . . a witch of the Wild magic, the magic of the Earth that is neither Dark nor Light.”  She paused then said in a tone of finality, “But Herne is a ghost, and despite all his power, he still must answer when the Hunt is summoned.  I expect that if he tried to refuse, he would be drawn anyway against his will.”

Maz got to her feet—which hadn’t touched the floor while she sat on the sofa—and gestured for her husband to follow her.

“Samhain is almost over,” she said, “and I would prefer to start the new year at home.  Poe, I hope today’s events mean that you’ll be spending this next year here with us.”  Poe flushed and was glad when she didn’t seem to expect an answer.

Mistress Organa saw the Kanatas out the door, then turned back to her own family. . . and Poe.

“I believe we all should retire,” she announced.  “Whatever remains for us to discuss can wait until tomorrow.”  She looked at Poe and Ben as she said it, but Master Solo was on his feet before she had finished speaking.

“I agree,” he muttered.  “I’ve had more than enough magic for one day.”

After his parents and the servants had said their goodnights and departed, Ben took Poe’s hand in his and kissed it.  Poe looked up into his eyes with a flutter in his heart he couldn’t quell.

“Is it really over?” Poe whispered.  “You are truly safe now. . . and I can truly stay here, with you?”

“Yes and yes, my dove,” Ben murmured back, “and as to your last question. . . that is for you to decide.  If you meant it when you said your prayers were answered, and you can love me without fear—”

“Yes!” Poe interrupted in an impassioned whisper.  Ben’s full lips broke into a smile.

“Then yes.  You can truly stay here.  With me.”  Ben looked around and amended, “Well, not _here_.  Tomorrow we can go back to my—to _our_ house.”

“Ours. . . .”  When Poe spoke the word, it made the cottage seem as dreamlike as the onyx castle of Kadath.  He smiled as broadly as Ben did.  “Your mother is probably right though—we should retire now and make our plans in the morning.”  Ben squeezed his hand and looked down at Hux, who hadn’t moved from his place before the fire.

“Are you coming up with us, Hux?”

The cat hissed.

“You can stay in the other room,” Ben retorted.  “And anyhow, we’re going to _sleep_.”

“You can understand what he says?” whispered Poe.  Ben nodded.

“Only because of the bond we share since he is my familiar—another reason why I made that choice.”  Ben turned back to Hux and muttered, “If you want to stay by the fire, do so, but there’s no reason to be disagreeable about it.”  Then Ben started for the staircase, leading Poe by the hand.

“Goodnight, Hux,” Poe said over his shoulder.  He felt more sympathy for the cat than Ben did; being teased with the possibility of becoming human again, only to have it snatched away. . . it must hurt.

_Maybe it would have been better if Herne had not told us how to break the spell,_ Poe thought as he followed Ben upstairs.  _Then at least Hux would still have some hope. . . but then he and Ben would still be wasting time trying to find a cure that would never work.  And if they were looking in the **Necronomicon** , I suppose it **is** for the best that they stop._   Poe pitied Hux nevertheless.

Back in the room where they had slept that afternoon, Poe undressed down to his shirt once more and watched from the corner of his eye as Ben did the same.  Looking at Ben’s long, muscular legs almost tempted Poe into taking _everything_ off, but he decided that, like serious discussions, making love would be better done after they’d rested from the arduous day.

Ben washed his face and neck at the basin, muttering something about heating water for a real bath at home the next day.  Poe imagined helping Ben with that task—the bathing, not the water-heating—and had to fight back temptation a second time.  But finally they were both in bed, sitting up and still somewhat modestly attired.  Ben extinguished the lantern at their bedside so that only a candle lit the room; then he put his arm around Poe’s shoulders and hugged the smaller man against him.

“All is well, him whom my soul loves?” Ben whispered as he pressed his lips into Poe’s hair.

“Yes,” Poe murmured back.  “Except. . . I want to know one last thing.  Why did Herne call you ‘Witch Skywalker’?  And who is the Master Skywalker that Maz talked about, the one who trained you?”

“Oh. . . .”  Ben shifted slightly so that he could look down into Poe’s face.  “I assumed you knew, but then, I suppose I never mentioned the name.  Master Skywalker is my mother’s brother, my uncle.  He was the one who educated me when I was young, before I left for the coven.  And Herne called me a Skywalker because I am one—I mean that I am descended from that family line, through my mother.”  Ben frowned as he studied Poe’s expression.  “Why do you look so intent, my dove?”

“It’s only. . . .”  Poe swallowed then bit his lip as he tried to think of a polite way to explain his interest.  “Well, the name of Skywalker is a familiar one at the Hunters’ Council.  There are some very, ah, well-known witches called Skywalker.”

“Well-known?” Ben persisted.  “You mean they taught you about my family, specifically, at the council?”

Poe nodded and murmured, “A large number of my history lessons concerned them in one way or another.  Perhaps—perhaps they weren’t the same Skywalkers?”  Ben didn’t look as if he believed that, and Poe didn’t either, not with such an unusual name.

“My grandfather is Anakin Skywalker,” Ben told him, “and my uncle is Luke.”

“I thought as much,” mumbled Poe.  Ben put a hand out to touch his face and draw Poe’s eyes back to him.

“Poe, does—does that trouble you?”  His dark eyes had filled with concern, as if he thought Poe might run away from him _now_ , after everything else they’d endured.  “Does it change how you see me?”

When Poe smiled at him, the tension in Ben’s face relaxed into relief.

“No,” Poe assured him, “it. . . well, in all honesty, it _impresses_ me.  And now I understand why the Dark coven so wanted to lure you back.  Anakin Skywalker is among the most powerful witches we have ever known of.  I can’t believe he’s your grandfather. . . .”  He shook his head in wonder.  “I know less about Luke Skywalker, but I do know the name.”

Ben’s eyes dropped in concern, and he muttered, “What do they say about my grandfather at the council?  Bad things?”

“They say he is a witch of the Light,” Poe replied as gently as he could.  He had an idea of how much Ben adored his grandfather, and he didn’t want to hurt Ben by relating anything negative.  “Of course, to many of the hunters, Light magic is no better than Dark, but a few do believe the Light witches serve God.  When I had my lessons, I learned about how the Dark tried to lure Anakin Skywalker to their side, but ultimately failed.”

“Yes,” murmured Ben.  “The Dark tried to use his love for my grandmother against him—but their love proved to be what saved him.”  He finally smiled at Poe again and drew his fingers through the brown curls of hair near the hunter’s temple.  “As your love has saved me.”

Poe smiled back with his heart full of warmth; then he remembered something from the dream he’d had under Maul’s curse.

“Ben, the first time we met in our dreams. . . you told me that your grandfather and uncle had special dreams like you did.  Did you mean that you all had those dreams because you’re witches?”  Ben nodded.

“Grandfather met Grandmother where I met you, at Kadath,” he told Poe.  “And my uncle met his soulmate there in his dreams as well.  So when I got older, and you were still coming to me there, I realized. . . I realized that we were meant to be together, too.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, Benji,” Poe whispered, unconsciously slipping into his habit of calling Ben by the secret nickname.  “It was true, all of it.  I hope that someday I can remember more of the life we’ve lived together in our dreams.”

“Perhaps you will.  But even if you do not, we have a lifetime of new memories to make together here in the waking world.”  Ben drew Poe into his arms and embraced him as the smaller man leaned against his chest.  After leaning over to blow out the candle, Ben lay down still holding Poe, and they slept.

\--

Poe awakened from another memory-dream at sunrise.  His face burned, his breath came rapidly, and between his legs, his cock was hard as iron.  He had dreamed of another time he found Ben in Kadath, when they were far older in his previous dream—not boys but young men.  Poe was using his mouth to please Ben, as Ben had done to him a few days before in real life, but in the dream, Poe felt no shame in it.

_It’s only a dream,_ he’d thought as he took nearly all of Ben’s erection into his mouth and throat and sucked on it until Ben climaxed with a scream that echoed through their room in the dark castle. Afterward, Poe had lifted his head and looked up at Ben with a teasing grin.

“You’re so loud, Benji,” he scolded.  “The king will hear and come slithering to find us.”  He punctuated the word “slithering” by crawling up Ben’s naked body to lie on top of him.

“You shouldn’t joke about that,” Ben mumbled between shuddering breaths.  He’d long since given up on trying to explain that the thing which writhed through the halls of Kadath was not its king.  Since Ben refused to tell Poe its true name, Poe insisted on calling it king, and Ben let him.  Poe had also ceased to be afraid of it, as he had been the first time he found Ben in the castle, or to show it very much respect.

Poe ignored Ben’s admonition and began pressing little kisses to his face, until Ben suddenly turned his head and caught Poe’s mouth with his.  As they kissed, Ben slipped his hands over Poe’s body, as bare as Ben’s own, and between his thighs.  After he brought Poe off with his hand, they lay together quietly, and Poe thought that since his mother’s death, he was only truly happy while he slept and dreamed of being with Ben.

“Benji?” he whispered against his lover’s smooth neck.  “I love you.”

Ben’s arms tensed around Poe, and he whispered back, “Do you?  Do you really, even though we’ve never really met?”

“I do—I know you better than I could ever know anyone else, and these dreams of you are more _real_ than anything else,” Poe insisted, completely unaware that his waking self never remembered any of it.

“I love you too, Poe,” Ben told him.  He turned his head to caress Poe’s forehead and spoke for the first time the words he would always say before they parted, from then on: “You belong to me, my love, and I belong to you.  We were made for each other, and even if we never meet, I will always love you. . . always.”

\--

Remembering those words now in the waking world, Poe’s eyes prickled with tears for all the years he’d spent hunting witches while remaining ignorant of so many things: that those witches were real, that their magic was real, and that one of them loved him with a depth that linked them through time and space, linked them strongly enough to unite them every time they dreamed.

Poe sat up and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, then looked down at Ben still asleep at his side.

“I will always love you too, Benji,” Poe whispered.

He got up and dressed quietly, then crept downstairs.  Mistress Organa was already up and about too, and Poe found her in the kitchen where Artoo was beginning to prepare breakfast.

“Good morning, Poe,” she replied when he greeted her.  “You’ve awakened early. . . and I have to say that I’m unsurprised Ben has not.”

Poe chuckled, “Yes, I thought it best to let him sleep.  I caused him a lot of trouble yesterday, and he probably needs his rest.”

Mistress Organa nodded her agreement and offered him some tea.  As Poe sipped at it, she asked, “Are you going to stay here now, with Ben?”

“Yes,” Poe said softly.  Despite still feeling embarrassed to talk about it in front of anyone, he decided it was time he said aloud what everyone probably already knew: “I love him.”  Mistress Organa showed no surprise whatsoever.

“And he loves you,” she replied, “as he has for nearly his whole life.  But Poe, of course you understand that you both could be, and probably _are_ , still in danger, even if the Wild Hunt really has taken down Dooku.”

“I know, mistress.  There is danger for everyone in this town as long as the coven still stands.”  Poe took another swallow of tea then continued, “That is why I wish to ask something of you—paper and ink to write a report to the Hunters’ Council.  I want to inform the them of the coven—well, and that Ben passed his trials, so that his name will be cleared.  But I fear that if I travel back to the council myself, the coven might attack me or try to take Ben once more.”

“Either is a possibility,” Mistress Organa agreed in a grim tone.  “Of course you may have whatever you need, Poe.  But will it be safe to commit such information to writing?  Anyone carrying a letter could be intercepted.”

Poe assured her, “We have a system of encoding sensitive pieces of information.  It would be meaningless to anyone outside the council.”

Mistress Organa looked doubtful, but she took Poe to the parlor and equipped him with writing supplies.  Poe used quite a few sheets of paper in writing the report addressed to Mistress Phasma with names and certain other details encoded in the council’s system—and certain others concealed in a way only Phasma herself could decipher.  After the shock of learning that the town elder was actually a witch, Poe decided that Phasma was the only person besides the Solo family and their friends whom he could completely trust.

By the time breakfast was ready, Poe had finished writing, despite being interrupted once when Ben finally awoke and came looking for him.  Ben approved of the report, especially since it meant Poe would not have to go to the council in person, and he left the hunter to his writing after a deep kiss that make Poe’s blood race with memories of his dream.

Just after Poe blotted the final page and sealed the document, Ben’s father joined him in the parlor.  Poe greeted him with an awkward mumble; Master Solo rarely spoke to him anyway, and after yesterday’s turmoil, Poe had no idea what the older man thought of him.  _Especially if he knows I’m in love with his son,_ Poe thought with heat rising in his face.

“Leia tells me you’re sending that—”  Master Solo gestured at the sheaf of paper in Poe’s hand.  “—to that council of yours.”  When Poe nodded, Solo added, “She also told me she’s afraid those witches might get their hands on it.”

“I explained that it’s encoded—” Poe began, but Solo shook his head.

“Even I’ve been able to crack a few codes over the years,” he declared.  “The only way you can be sure it’s safe is to be sure it won’t be intercepted.”

Not sure what Solo was getting at, Poe mumbled, “Well, I can’t. . . I can’t be _sure_.  Any messenger who carries it could be overtaken.”

“Exactly!”  Solo chuckled, then finally explained to the confused Poe, “Leia suggested that Chewie and I carry it to the council for you.  We may be getting on in years, to _your_ eyes anyway, but we can still put up a better fight than anyone _else_ around here—and everyone knows it, too.”  He grinned at Poe’s startled expression.  “We were smugglers long before Leia and I married and Maz got her hooks into Chewie.  One little letter delivery is nothing!”

“Oh,” Poe gulped.  Ben spoke very little about his father, and Poe had never actually stopped to wonder what exactly Master Solo did, or had done in the past.  He finally stammered, “I would be very grateful, Master Solo, to both of you.  But I feel guilty putting you to so much trouble on my account—it’s a long ride.”

He expected Solo to wave off his concerns and say something about needing to get away for a while, but instead, Solo just studied Poe for a moment, not smiling now.

“It is not only for your account, Poe—Master Dameron,” he said.  “Witches have been interfering with my life since I was younger than you.  I knew what I was getting into marrying Leia, I knew about her family, and the Dark witches had done their damnedest to kill me before that.  But I thought that when we married and moved away to start a life and a family of our own. . . I thought that would be the end of it.”  He sighed heavily and turned his hazel eyes away from Poe to stare out the window.

“But then Ben—he was the only child we had, and he was a witch.  And then the Dark came for him. . . and he went to them willingly.”  Poe saw Solo’s jaw, grizzled with a day’s growth of beard, tense.

“He came back, though,” Poe tried to reassure him, but then Solo turned back to him with a look that terrified Poe—not because it was full of anger, but because of the pain he saw in it.

“He almost killed me, Poe,” Master Solo said.  “That Dark coven so corrupted my son, he tried to kill me.  He never told you that, did he?”

Prickles of horror and panic like hot needles danced over Poe’s face, and all he could do was shake his head.  Without taking his eyes from Poe’s, Solo lifted his shirt and vest to show the deep pit of a scar on a chest still fairly trim for his age.  Poe’s mouth went dry, and after a few seconds, Solo lowered his shirt hem again.

He went on, “I only survived because Maz was able to keep me alive until Leia’s father and brother could get here, then between the two of them, they had the magic to heal me enough for my body to finish mending on its own.”

Poe licked his parched lips and tried to speak.  “I—I didn’t—didn’t know.  I’m sorry. . . .”  Solo sighed again, and some of the pain left his face.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he muttered.  “I shouldn’t have even told you—it happened while Ben was still with the coven, more than a year before he left them.  I’ve come to realize that I can’t hold him entirely responsible for what he did under their influence.  But I speak of it to show you why I’m more than willing to go to the council for you—and Chewie feels the same way.  The Dark witches have tormented all of us for most of our lives, and Leia’s parents before that.  If your Hunters’ Council can rout them from our woods, I’ll do whatever I can to make that happen.”

“Thank you,” Poe whispered.  He held out his report to the older man, who took it and tucked it into a pocket within his vest.

“We’ll start out right after breakfast and have it there before nightfall,” Master Solo promised.  He started to turn away, then paused and looked back at Poe.  “Are you going to speak to Ben about what I told you?”

Poe hesitated, thought about it, and made his decision: “No.  If he wants to tell me about it, he will.  And if you have forgiven him, then I can too.”

Solo gave Poe a rather sardonic look and said, “I haven’t, not entirely.  But I love him nevertheless.  And if I can love him, you can too, right?”  Poe didn’t follow him to breakfast until he was sure the deep blush had faded from his face.

\--

Before they had finished the meal, the minister pounded on the front door.  When Threepio answered it with Mistress Organa right behind him, the old man said he didn’t have time to come inside; he had to spread the word across the settlement that Master Dooku had disappeared.

“Some are saying they saw or heard the Wild Hunt last night,” the minister confided, “and that it spirited Master Dooku away.  Of course that’s nonsense, but it shows how far this ridiculous witch-hunt fever has gone.  And I _am_ worried for his health.  None of us is as young as we used to be, and the weather has been so cold. . . .”

Once Mistress Organa expressed the appropriate concern, the minister hurried off to the next house.  When the mistress returned to breakfast and relayed the minister’s message, Poe could barely suppress a shiver.

_What did Herne do to him?_ he wondered, remembering the Hunter’s words: _The Hunt is its own reward—I care not what becomes of the prize after I’ve won it._

After they finished the meal, Ben helped Poe gather up his bags and carry them to the stable.  Both of Ben’s parents accompanied them, Master Solo to collect Chewie at the inn for their journey, and Mistress Organa to bid both younger men farewell.  Hux followed them.  Once they had laden Bey with Poe’s bags, Mistress Organa turned to the hunter and embraced him.

“I hope I will see you soon,” she murmured to him.  “And that you’ll make Ben come to town more often than he has been.”

“I’ll try,” Poe laughed.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done for us, Poe,” Mistress Organa said.  She embraced Ben as well, who at least tolerated the show of affection; then she returned to her home, and they started out for theirs.

Ben and Poe walked side by side and hand in hand, with Poe leading Bey and Hux padding along after them silently.  He still seemed to be in a surly mood, as far as Poe could tell without being able to understand him as Ben did, but he made no growls or hisses of complaint.  Ben spoke little as well, but he kept glancing down at Poe as they walked, and each time their eyes met, his filled with a look of wonder and joy.  Poe squeezed his hand and once brought it up to his lips to caress it.

When they reached Ben’s cottage, he grew more animated and began to talk with excitement about everything he would do to make the house into a home for them both.  Poe felt a bit like a new bride, and he nodded shyly as they led Bey back to the little shed behind the house and Ben explained how he would start building it up into a stall that very day.  Hux slunk inside and sat hunched on the hearth while Ben lit a fire and began to make space for Poe’s belongings.  The cat stayed out of their way for the rest of the day while they worked.

By dusk of All Saints’ Day, the horse had shelter from the cold which would only deepen as autumn became winter, and Poe had found places for the few things he owned.  Ben had no bedside table, so Poe mounted a bit of wood on the wall there to make a shelf for his mother’s Bible and the jar of lotion Ben had given him.

“Surely you don’t need a reminder to think of me now?” Ben teased him.  “I’ll be right here beside you.”

“I won’t need reminding,” Poe responded with a smile, “but I can’t ever think of you too often.  Besides, it truly has helped my hands.  They’re softer already.”

Ben took them both in his own hands and kissed Poe’s palms as he murmured, “They’ll grow softer yet.  You won’t have to lift a finger, just let me take care of you.”

“I don’t want that!” Poe protested even as he laughed.  He tugged his hands free so he could wrap his arms around Ben’s waist and hold him tightly.  He whispered against Ben’s neck, “We’ll work together, and fight the Dark together, and take care of each other.”

“And dream together,” Ben said and clutched Poe to his chest.  “I want to share our dreams again.  When you came to town, the dreams stopped—I believe we were both too upset and confused to find each other in our sleep.  But now, maybe we can dream again.”

“I hope so,” Poe whispered.

As promised, Ben drew a real bath for them that night, and they washed each other before the fire.  Hux slunk outside as soon as they began to undress and did not return until Ben and Poe went to bed.  Thinking of his dream-memory the night before, Poe found that the idea of putting his mouth _there_ no longer frightened him, and they made love to each other that way until both were satisfied, and the cat wished his ears weren’t sensitive enough to hear their moans through the cottage walls.  Afterwards, Ben held Poe and whispered, “You belong to me, my love, and I belong to you.  We were made for each other, and I will always love you. . . always.”

\--

This time, even as Poe looked out over the cold waste and ice desert of the South, he felt warm.

_I’m dreaming again,_ he thought as he pressed his fingertips to the frosty rippled glass of the window pane.  _I’ve come back to Kadath. . . but is this a real dream, or just a memory?_

“Poe?”  Ben’s deep voice, coming from somewhere behind him, trembled.  Poe turned and saw his beloved standing there in the small empty room, their secret meeting place in the black crystal palace.

“Benji,” Poe murmured.  “Is this—”  He got no farther than that before Ben ran to him and swept him into his arms, and Poe knew this was no memory.

“You’re here!” Ben cried against his forehead.  “Poe. . . you came back.  We can share our dreams again!”

“I promised you,” Poe whispered.  “I promised you I’d come back. . . and this time I won’t forget.”

\--

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the end of this AU by far!  But since it is the end of the first plot arc, I’ve decided to close out this fic and start a sequel when it’s time to continue the story, after I finish up a few others.  Because of course Hux can’t stay a cat forever, and I’m sure Phasma’s gonna have something to say about the coven (and Poe’s witch-lovin’ shenanigans).  And then we have to find out where Rey and Finn have been throughout all this!  DUN DUN DUNNNNN.


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